


You Should Have Known I Was a Fire

by drpeppapigphd



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Good Parent Din Djarin, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I did not proofread and I apologize, I mean literally like so much fluff, Marriage, Protective Din Djarin, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Mandalorian (TV) Spoilers, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, no beta we die like men, time is made up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 22,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28546491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpeppapigphd/pseuds/drpeppapigphd
Summary: “I will never understand why you held me if you were afraid of warmth. You should have known I was a fire.” — Rupi Kaur (sue me for indulging us with this poetic justice)You have the chance to reunite with your sister, Cara Dune, and end up serving a Mandalorian and his foundling on their quest while you’re at it. You quickly find that Din Djarin is more than just your sister’s buddy... the man has been waiting for a Jedi just like you.I have written this with little attention to grammar/spelling/punctuation (SORRY!) and an eternally jumbled understanding of the cannon and timeline, but this remains true: We stan Din Djarin to the last. Please enjoy. Xx cheers, Peppa
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 28
Kudos: 170





	1. First Impressions

Your sister is, among many things, a skeptic. You always assumed that it was due to her military training—“trust no one”—or her inherent stubbornness, but at any rate, you didn’t inherent it. She doesn’t really believe in the force, but is struggling to reconcile such holdings with events that she has recently witnessed. 

You haven’t seen her in over 10 years and had assumed that she was dead or untraceable until she appeared to you in a vision. One night, as you were laying on your cot at the rear of your ship, you felt a strong pull from the force—sharp and biting—that flashed through your mind faster than you could begin to register. 

Only after seeing several jumbled memories of a man wearing what appeared to be a Mandalorian mask did you see a familiar face: Cara Dune, your older sister and role model (though you would never tell her that), being touched by a small green hand that must have belonged to the Jedi who reached out to the Force.

Happy tears flooded your vision as you worked to connect with the green baby’s mind; “Sorgan,” a whisper in your mind chided. _Sorgan_.

———

“We’ve finally got a chance to breathe for five kriffing minutes, Mando,” Cara scolds accusingly as she trails Din through the village; children chase a rodent with a stick and squeal as they fail to catch it before it darts under a porch. 

The earth is soft and dark after the afternoon rain and the scent of it rises to meet the smoky aroma of meat cooking in the mess hall. Light laughter in the distance as krill farmers return tired but in good spirits seems almost surreal to Din—he had not been able to relax in... well, never—and most certainly not right after doing his job.

“You can’t keep stomping around like the operation was unsuccessful,” she continues, referencing the other night when an underdog—albeit spirited—operation to officially run some raiders out of town ended in muddy success. “Your kid is having a good time”—she gestures off-handedly to the little green baby who is now eating something out of the hand of another kid while she stares up into the twilight that has settled on the horizon—“and there are quite a few people, O mera in particular”... That earns her a heavy, modulated sigh. 

“I’m exhausted, but that doesn’t mean I can let my guard down... And I’m not the settling kind.” The stern tone of Din’s filtered voice through the shiny Beskar is convincing enough for Cara, who rolls her eyes and raises a sharp, dark brow. She shrugs, then heads off to the mess hall for some of that meat that was teasing them on the breeze. But Din keeps walking, going about the daily check around the village’s perimeter... just in case. 

———

You haven’t been on Sorgan in nearly 5 years. Reminding yourself of how much has changed all across the galaxy since Order 66–and that Sorgan is not immune to that—you trudge through the humid underbrush of the woods. Would people here even welcome a Jedi? They had welcomed this baby, yes, but you are not nearly as endearing as a child these days. Your deep cape swishes through wet foliage and you move with urgency. Cara is close enough for you to be able to feel her presence through the Force; you can sense your beloved sister, though a pang of sadness at how the last decade has hardened her wedge itself into your sternum. 

You are grateful that you selected a dark tunic, chocolately leather pants, and dark knee-high boots for your journey—had you worn your typical gray tunic, it would have been more obvious that you are drenched in sweat. “Stars, this humidity,” you grumble to yourself. You gather your long hair into your hands and braid it as you walk, listening to the sound of village life as it becomes clearer in the distance. 

It’s the crunching of leaves off towards your right that tips you off to his presence before the glint of light dancing along the tree trunk in front of you makes your blood run cold. Expecting that the dwindling light is reflecting off of his weaponry, you freeze, pressing your back into the rough bark of the tree. Breathe. Center yourself. Your words are easier to think than to feel, and you begin to dig your fingernails into the bark as the silence becomes increasingly deafening until—

“You can tell me who you are and exactly why you’re here, or I can kill you. Start talking.” The voice is deep and rumbling through a vocoder, but it gives you goosebumps all the same. 

“I mean you no harm,” you begin, slowly turning your head to face your new acquaintance. Your breath catches and your words halt as you take in the sight of a Mandalorian. He is clad in chrome Beskar and it is both impressive and terrifying. His broad shoulders are stiffened and his helmet is tilted ever so slightly to the side as if he is waiting for you to finish your sentence. At this distance, you can spot at least 5 weapons on his person, so you stumble over your words to complete your introduction. 

“Um, I am... I’m (Y/N) Dune. I am in search of my sister, Cara Dune, who I believe has been through here?” You pause, waiting for a response... but he doesn’t more a muscle. The t-shaped visor of his helmet is menacing and you desperately wish for any sign that he isn’t just about to shoot you down right then. Nothing. You continue. 

“I have been called here by someone... someone I believe to be a child. You were also in those visions, thought I don’t quite know what the relationship is between my sister, the Jedi, and you.” 

At the mention of you having been “called” to Sorgan, he takes a step back; you see his shoulders relax just a hair. “You were called?”

“Yes,” you respond quickly, encouraged at his minute change in demeanor. “Someone reached out to the Force and was essentially, uh... searching for other Jedi. I assume he is all alone for a reason.” You start slowly treading towards the Mandalorian as he does the same. Finally, you are about 10 feet from one another and you finally notice that your breathing has evened out again. 

“So which is it?” Din’s question is abrupt, and it catches you off guard. “Are you here to answer a call from a Jedi, or to see your sister?”

“Both.” You slowly reach up to your elbow length gloves and start to roll the leather down your arms; the tunic below is stuck to your skin with sweat. “I came for the Jedi... the baby who is searching and it just so happened that I would have the good fortune to meet you and my sister in the process. I’d just like to see her alive after...” You trail off, but the Mandalorian’s armored gaze never falters. 

A few moments pass in silence before Din gives you a curt nod then pivots on his heel and heads back towards the village. You exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and follow him gratefully.


	2. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reunion & a revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a tumblr for Ao3 extras and have no idea how to use it (haha): drpeppapigphd

“You are most welcome to anything we have,” Omera says; her kind eyes bring you warmth as you settle into your lodgings in the hut next to her family’s home. “I believe your sister should be back from the mess hall soon... she typically stays up late playing cards and drinking spotchka with some of the workers.” Her sheepish grin makes it nearly impossible to stifle your own, and you let out a soft chuckle. “That sounds like her. Thank you again for your generosity. Please let me know if there’s any way I can repay you.” 

Omera leaves quietly with a polite nod, and you find that you are suddenly more wound up than you thought possible after trekking through the woods and having gone two days without sleep. Still, a small shred of uncertainty claws at the back of your mind. What if Cara is unhappy to see you? What if she is angry that you haven’t contacted her in all these years? 

As quickly as the thoughts entered your mind, you push them out and focus on the Force. It ebbs and flows through you in this quiet, simple room. “I am one with the Force and the Force is with me,” you remind yourself at a whisper—an anthem of your late Master’s, and a truth you believe but still cannot fathom. 

After a few minutes, you decide that there’s no harm in heading to the Mess Hall to find Cara yourself. Knowing her she could be the last to leave and you’d like to find something small to tide you over until breakfast; your stomach grumbles hardily at the thought of food, but you already feel guilty for accepting Omera’s offer to lodge you for free and would hate to take the villagers’ hard-earned food, too. 

You don your cloak once again and pull the hood up over your head, mindlessly twisting the end of your long braid in your hand. The warm flicker of a candle is hushed as you twirl towards the door and exit soundlessly.

The night air is still humid, but the temperature has dropped significantly. A few bugs hum by you and you listen as the krill sing their soft whirring songs in the pools. It is so nice not to be on a ship for just a moment. 

“Can I help you find something?” A familiar modulated voice says, startling you into looking up from your quiet reverie of your walk through the peaceful row of huts. The Mandalorian is about 10 feet in front of you and appears to be heading towards the Mess Hall as well. 

“I was hoping to find the Mess Hall—I hear my sister is still fairly easy to rope into a card game if there’s alcohol to be had,” you chide warmly. You think you hear the lightest huff of air escape the modulator, betraying his stoic nature. A chuckle, perhaps? He makes no attempt to respond, but he does nod his shiny head quickly; you almost miss it. You smile, falling into step next to him. 

“There should be some food left, if you’re hungry,” Din says, even-toned and noncommittal. 

“Thank you”—you begin, but you are interrupted by the doors of the Mess Hall flying open, where you see a familiar grimace backlit by the glow from within. 

“It’s all a game of chance, Rivan! Don’t get a big head about it or I’ll have to stack the deck.” Cara is almost exactly like you remember her. A few more crinkles around the eyes, a stiffness that you have come to know yourself that is only brought on by constant combat, and some new tattoos—but otherwise, your favorite face. A beautiful one that is priceless to you. Her eyes find yours and she instantly drops her cup of spotchka on the porch. 

You are hurtling into her arms before you even realize that you are running to her and she to you, crashing into her strong embrace and stuttering to breathe as the air is knocked out of your lungs. Your heart kicks in your chest and you can hear your blood pumping in your ears. The Force buzzes around you in contentment at happy reunions, the hope of a bloodline revived for your ancestors as the Force witnesses your sister alive. 

“Cara,” you whisper, your lungs and eyes burning with a decade of emotion long suppressed. She is digging her fingers into your shoulder blades, clutching at your body to make sure that you are truly standing before her. 

“I don’t think I’m drunk enough to be imagining this,” she murmurs. Mando gives a low laugh, taking in the scene. 

“(Y/N),” Cara begins, pulling your hood off and tenderly cradling your face in her calloused hands to look at you more closely. “I thought you were dead... Order 66 and Alderaan... and...” She furrows her brow and uncharacteristically chokes back a sob. “Where have you been?” 

“I was on Coruscant when... when it happened... I fled to Tatooine and spent months trying to track down your shock unit...” Your hands are trembling. 

“You...” her voice shakes as she continues to take in your visage; “look so much like mother.” 

Your eyes close softly as you press your forehead to hers. _Maker, you missed your mother’s face._

After a few minutes more of the quiet embrace, Din clears his throat. “If you’re still hungry, I’m going to go grab something.”

Before you can explain to Cara, she slaps you on the back and does her best to return to her typical, angsty self. “(Y/N) is always hungry, Mando... unless that has changed.” The three of you chuckle and you nod. “It has been several days since I’ve had a proper meal. I’ll follow you in...” you trail off, making eye contact with the visor of the Mandalorian. It doesn’t feel quite right to call him “Mando,” but you can’t decide what else you would say. You decide to wait until he tells you what to call him some time. 

“Come find me when you wake up,” Cara orders over her shoulder as she saunters off to her hut. You move quickly to keep up with Din as you enter the Mess Hall. He shows you where to find a plate and you both serve yourselves. Once you emerge from the serving line, you meet a collective gaze from the men playing cards who had all turned to silently watch you and the Mandalorian. 

“Evening, miss...” a large, jolly man calls to you. “We haven’t had a Jedi in these parts in a long time.” You stand next to Din with your tray, both of you unmoving. 

“Yes sir, I would imagine that to be true. There aren’t very many of us left these days.” Your eyes dart down to your tray; you swallow a lump in your throat. You expect the beskar-clad hunter to push his way past you, but he remains perfectly still at your side, listening in on the conversation. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the jolly man remarks. 

You muster up a soft smile and nod in acceptance, opening your mouth to speak before you are interrupted by the youngest man at the table. He has wild hair that splays out in all directions and he buzzes with the nervous energy of a young man who has finally been accepted into the fold of the older men in his community. 

“Are you a knight? Do you have a lightsaber? Can I see it?” 

You let out a faint laugh and feel Din shifting on his feet next to you. “Actually, I’m a Jedi Master. I moved up in rank just before Order 66.” _Deep breath_ , you tell yourself. _Swallow the lump in your throat and make it clear to them that you are not a threat._ “I have twin sabers,” you explain as you pull back your cloak to reveal a short saber on each hip. “You can see them tomorrow, outdoors, if you”—

“Yes!” He is practically standing up from the table now, having jumped in his seat at the offer. 

You bow your head once more at the brood of gentlemen, then exit with the Mandalorian in tow. It’s a mostly silent walk back in the direction you came. You reach the hut Omera is letting you stay in and give Din a small wave with your free hand that isn’t holding the tray. “Thanks again...”, you say softly, looking down at the appetizing meal. “Perhaps I can meet the child tomorrow?”

He nods, wordlessly, and you wonder if he nods more than he speaks. The moonlight on his chrome armor dances across the outer walls of the huts as he continues walking towards his own lodging. _Huh_ , you think. _Beautiful_.


	3. A Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader meets Grogu; Cara ropes reader into long lost talents.

  
You wake to the incessant hum of the krill in their ponds and the early glow of dawn that seeps through the cracks in the walls of your hut. You don’t even remember going to sleep after you inhaled your food from the Mess Hall; you didn’t even bother to remove your shoes before passing out on top of the covers. Wiping the sleep from your eyes and righting your clothes, you do a few stretches and let your hair out of its braid. The morning air whistling through the door is pleasantly and crisper than yesterday, so you quickly make your way outside before you miss the sunrise. 

The horizon is rosy and soft; a moon and distant planet rest daintily in the distance, fragile like glass ornaments on a Life Day tree, hanging among the stars. Dawn and dusk are your favorite times of day because it’s quiet and beautiful, uninterrupted by the chaos of daily lives. Before you even register that your feet are likely to be soaked, you remove your boots and tred lightly along the edge of some of the krill ponds until you’re at the edge of the village. There you watch the sun come up over the hill and illuminate the water around you. 

You close your eyes and reach out to the Force; it meets you with the same peace that you feel now, but from every peaceful moment you’ve ever felt in your life: Watching a similar sunrise with your mother. Holding your brother’s baby for the first time. Singing for your Master Yaddle in exchange for some of her famous bone broth. Yaddle. You missed her just as desperately as you missed your mother, and in different ways. Your soul ached for her, having been connected to her through The Force... trained, challenged, supported. 

“Master (Y/N),” a quiet, modulated voice says from behind you. You don’t jump, but you are quickly dropped from your peaceful reveries back into the reality of a Sorgan morning. Eyelids fluttering open and trace of warmth crawling up your neck to your cheeks, you turn to face your Mandalorian friend. 

“Mando,” you nod, “good mor”—your voice halts with your breathing and all ability to think. Next to the warrior, in a white pram that looks a lot like an egg, is a child. The child. Grogu. You can hardly swallow the sensation of burning and energy in your throat as your eyes meet two big, dark brown saucers nestled between two giant, pale green ears. Tears sting at your eyes with a bitter sweetness. Grogu is the same species that your beloved Yaddle was, but he is so much smaller and significantly less wrinkly... for now. 

Your mouth opens to speak, but no sound comes out, as a tiny green hand reaches for you, clad in a soft brown sack-turned-robe. It is then that you remember the Mandalorian, eyes flickering over to meet his gaze. Stepping forward to press your palm up against the entirety of the child’s hand, he coos and closes his eyes in contentment. Din does not shift at your sudden closeness, but instead he watches you and the child quietly. 

“Do you know what he is?” The question catches you off-guard and you blink a few times before answering. The Mandalorian is patiently waiting for your answer, his head tilted ever so slightly towards you. The helmet should be menacing, you think, but somehow you feel safe. 

“I... I have met Jedi of his kind before,” you begin, furrowing your brow. “My Master was... was whatever he is. She didn’t speak of her kind often.” 

“How old is your Master?” Din shifts in discomfort this time, and you realize that he’s worried that the baby—being fifty years old—may not have a lifespan that he can predict. 

You offer a soft smile in the hopes that it will calm his nerves. “Yaddle was nearly 800 when...” you duck your head to look at Grogu, hoping that no memories of the tragedies of Order 66 will pass from you to the child. He blinks back at you as his ears ripple forwards and backwards. “What I mean is, is... his kind lives for hundreds of years. So he is, in fact, very much a baby.” If you hadn’t been looking, you would have missed the tension leaving Din’s shoulders. You feel a warmth in your chest at his relationship with the child, and chuckle to yourself as the child squeals out an unintelligible string of babbling sounds. 

You three pass a few minutes in relative silence until the Mandalorian breaks it again, more timidly than before. 

“Can you train him?” 

You stare into the man’s dark visor, sensing the desperation and hope in his voice. Returning your gaze to the child, you nod slowly. “I must train him, or he could become dangerous. Fatally dangerous. He has already received some training,” you explain softly, “I can feel it. Has he ever... moved objects without touching them? Placed pressure on your body from a distance? Healed you?” 

Din nods emphatically, looking at his son then patting his tiny forehead. “I’ve seen him do things I can’t explain. Move things—big things, like... a mudhorn”—you widen your eyes as he tells you of Grogu’s escapades. “I’ve watched him heal wounds that should have been death sentences... he’s always tired after, like he’s used all of his energy.”   
You offer a nod in understanding, amazed at the events Din has described. “When you use the Force to perform an act,” you begin, calling a small pebble from one of the krill ponds out of the water and into your hand with a flick of your fingers; “you are drawing on the energy that exists in all things.” You lay your hand out flat and extend it to Grogu, just out of his reach. His little green hand raises up and he pushed his three stubby fingers towards you before levitating the rock over into his lap. He promptly sticks the corner of it in his mouth as he continues babbling.

You turn back to Din, carrying on with your lesson: “Grogu can clearly harness energy and use it to perform these incredible tasks. But, if it takes a lot out of him, that means that he’s probably using his own energy rather than the energy that exists outside of him.” You pause, waiting for a nod from Din before continuing. He obliges. “I can teach him, but it’s going to take months at the very least... and training him to be a Knight before he is independent will take even longer. Nothing can train him to... not be a baby,” you giggle; the Mandalorian gives a quiet huff through his helmet. 

“I’m willing to offer you a space on our ship, room and board—food costs, travel costs, everything—if you’ll travel with us until his training is complete.” 

The offer catches you by surprise and it must be reflected in your furrowed brow. 

“I know that’s a lot to ask of you, but... he’s not safe in one spot for long and”—

“I’ll do it. Consider me hired,” you offer, reaching out to shake Din’s hand. “May the force be with us.” After a beat longer than would be accepted in high society, Din takes your hand and shakes it firmly, lingering longer than you anticipated. Suddenly he whips around and strides off back towards the village, the awkward silence clearly too much for him to handle after handling your hand. 

———

Later that day, you are sitting on the porch of Omera’s home listening to Cara tell stories of your childhood. The Mandalorian stands behind the three of you leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. You can sense that he is listening to Cara though it almost looks as if he’s peering off into the distance. What I wouldn’t give to have a helmet sometimes, you muse. 

“That’s when I knew that she would be trouble,” Cara says to Omera as she laughs warmly at your sister’s story. “If she got in trouble, our grandfather would lessen her sentence if she sang for him.” You closed your eyes and recalled the long-forgotten memory of your Grandpa’s kind eyes and terrible singing. The pang in your heart is more dull than you expected. The remains of a past life, it seems. Time heals all wounds, even at the cost of faded memories. 

“You sing?” Omera asks excitedly, turning from Cara to you, and you duck your head shyly. Cara had always done her best to embarrass and support you, but it was always difficult to tell which one she was doing at any given moment. “Better than anyone else I’ve ever heard, Omera, and then some. She had everyone wrapped around her finger because of it, too.” Cara’s toe pokes at your shin in a teasing nature, causing you to chuckle and shake your head clear of her chiding. 

“Well, you must sing tonight at Lenora’s wedding,” pleads Omera as you shoot an accusatory look at Cara. 

“It would rude to refuse our hosts, (Y/N)” Cara snickers. 

“I suppose I could sing one song. One, singular song, as a wedding gift...” you begrudgingly agree without breaking your calm composure. 

Omera and Cara clap and whoop respectively, and you feel the eyes of the Mandalorian on you for a fleeting second before he turns and heads into the house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still have no idea what I’m doing on tumblr. Come teach me! @drpeppapigphd


	4. Scar Tissue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Embrace this with the *no beta we die like men* spirit knowing that I wrote this at night and did NOT proofread. Also, isn’t there something inherently sexy about elbow-length leather gloves? I might need some... enjoy, loves! Xx

You thank the Maker and all things holy that Cara has had too much spotchka to remember that she had asked you to sing after the short, simple, beautiful wedding that had taken place at dusk; Omera was too polite to ask herself, and you made sure to keep thanking her for her hospitality with every chance you got in the hopes that she would maintain your truce.

Still, as the reception carried on with music, laughter and games, you found yourself painfully out of place among the locals. They were incredibly kind to you, of course, but conversation had never come easily to you; what’s more, the incredible amount of Force energy you were taking on from sweet Grogu was making you restless and you had not trained since your arrival.

You decide that you will take the chance to slip away from the crowd, grateful to the dark of night for its masking abilities. However, you don’t make it far past the mess hall before you see the young man who had spoken to you there the night before. His eyes light up as he sees you and he tugs a handful of his friends along with him to approach you. 

“Master (Y/N), can we see your sabers now?” 

You chuckle at how straight to the point he is and nod slowly. “Yes, but only if you promise to hold very still.” You slowly remove the cloak of your hood and unsheathe your sabers—one in each hand—from their places on your belt. Stepping back so that you’re on the edge of the nearest krill pond, you close your eyes and attune your senses to the Force flowing through the dirt at your feet and the air on your cheeks. 

Igniting the sabers and demonstrating a flow of movements for your fascinated audience, your heightened awareness draws you to the position of Grogu. He and Din are standing less than 10 feet behind the young man and his friends; you blush, embarrassed that they would see such a display. However, they’ll both see far more of your sabers since you will need them to train Grogu, so it makes sense to let them see how expertly you can wield them. 

Your sabers are green—modeled after Yaddle’s beloved consular, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s saber and Master Skywalker’s second saber—and purr violently against the air with unimaginable energy and heat. They alone are dangerous, but in your hands, they are unstoppable. 

“Why do you have two?” Asks a young lady who is soaked to the skin. You chuckle softly, realizing that she must have been in one of the krill ponds as a dare or for fun. 

“I have two for several reasons. Firstly, they represent the balance of the Force—dark and light. Secondly, I have shorter arms than most Jedi who wield one large saber. Two smaller ones are more manageable, though it would be nice to have a free hand sometimes...” You trail off, remembering when Yaddle had told you about the rarity of findings two nearly identical Kyber crystals.”And because this is what the Force intended; my choices are inextricably bound up in the push and pull of what The Force asks of me.”

The oohs and ahs draw you away from distant memories as you extinguish the blades. “Do you have to wear gloves to protect yourself from the heat? You must because it’s so hot on Sorgan.” The youngest boy in the group has shoved his way to the front of the pack; had you not seen his dark eyes peering out from around his larger friend, you might have missed his question. But, no—you heard him perfectly and it sent a sharp pain straight to your sternum. You weren’t one for deception and withholding the truth often, but this question pointed its finger at a particularly deep scar that couldn’t seem to heal. 

“No, you can wield a lightsaber with barehands... but leather has a better grip on metal than more metal on itself.” The child cocks an unruly eyebrow as a show of confusion, but you’re already pulling your elbow-length glove down the length of your left arm. Your hands shake rather violently and you can feel the sweat between your right palm and the worn leather, trying to eek out its own explanation of your current state. As the your arm is finally free of the glove, you slowly reach out towards the curious youths, rotating it slowly in the light. Everything below your elbow is dark gunmetal, intricately fashioned into a complex prosthetic. Some of the children look away, discomforted by the gleam of your hand in the cool moonlight, while other lean in to get a closer look. You weren’t ashamed by the loss of your arm, but rather the story behind it... and rarely did you find yourself exposed without being asked for the explanation. And with children, it is foolish to hope for an end to their line of questioning. You hope in vain. 

“Does it hurt?” The same little boy is flushed now, realizing what he has asked of you, but he continues to feed his hunger for information despite his embarrassment. 

“It did for a while. Now I hardly notice that it’s not my real hand.” You start to pull the glove back on in the span of silence following your answer. You can hear your own heartbeat thumping against your ears, waiting. Some of them sway back and forth, suddenly more interested in eye contact with their shoes than with you. Then it comes swiftly and sharply delivered by the boy from the Mess Hall. 

“How did it happen, Master (Y/N)?”

You swallow the lump in your throat and breathe deeply, stilling the anxiety that was slowly creeping up your phantom limb. You have to look at them while you tell it or you will see ghosts of your past dancing across the backs of your eyelids. And yet, it hardly seems right to tell it with your eyes open—irreverent, somehow... a dishonor to the fallen. 

“I was on Coruscant when... I was at the Jedi Temple when Order 66 was invoked”—

“That’s when they killed the Jedi?”

“That is when they killed many Jedis, yes, but not all.” You nod slowly, reassuring yourself that others had escaped, too. “I was a young knight, fortunate enough to have been in the wrong place at the right time. Had I been where I was supposed to I—I would have died. After the first wave came through, I left my hiding place and went to find my Master. She was already gone.” The burning in your throat manifests itself as a light hoarseness, undetectable to the untrained ear. Din, it turns out, is not an untrained ear under that helmet. You see him tilt ever so slightly in the darkness, moonbeams dancing across the chrome expanse of his helm. You stare just a little too long. 

“And then what?” Pushes the little girl who has dried off a little now in the crisp evening breeze; she clutches a shawl around her shivering shoulders as a friend scoots closer to join her under it. 

“I looked for other Jedis—my friends—and... I couldn’t find very many. I did find my friend Ahsoka, who managed to escape. But when I found my Master’s consular, Obi-Wan Kenobi, he was wounded. I was beginning to heal him when a Sith came to finish the damage he had already done in their earlier battle. I couldn’t think fast enough to draw my saber and I...” you breathe shallowly, reliving the moment of searing heat and blinding pain. “I threw my arm out to protect him instead.”

“That wasn’t very smart,” remarks the littlest boy who quickly gets a smack upside the head from an older companion. You can’t help but chuckle at the honesty of the kid and the truth of his statement. 

“It wasn’t very smart, you’re right,” you say, kneeling to be at eye level with him. “But sometimes we do dumb things to protect those we love because it’s better than doing nothing and regretting it all our lives. In my case, my Master’s friend, Kenobi, lived to see the next day. I’d do it all over again for that.” The child nods in understanding as you rise to stand. 

“I think it’s past your bedtimes, hm?” You raise an eyebrow as a few yawns escape some tiny mouths. “Off to bed with you.” A few nod in thanks and turn to continue their walk back to the huts. You sense a remaining presence in the darkness after the younglings are gone. The Mandalorian. You don’t move, maintaining your stance on the edge of a krill pond, letting him choose to emerge from the shadows instead. The silence is deafening, though not uncomfortable. You pray that he’ll choose to break it first because you have no idea what to say. 

“I promise my reflexes have gotten better,” you say before you can stop yourself. The words tumble out in spite of your resolution to wait for him to speak. Of course. But then, his low chuckle trickling through the modulator of the helmet and bouncing off of your chest is like a ship kicking into hyper speed. It knocks the breath out of you in the best way. Now he has nearly closed the distance between you, standing only 2 feet or so in front of you. Your dark cloaks billow in the breeze, twin flags of two warriors with different histories. 

“I’m sure that’s true,” he offers quietly. You peer intently into the dark t-shaped visor, wishing that you could tell whether or not he was concerned about your adequacy as a companion for the child. Instead, he changes the topic and you exhale once more. “Would you be okay with leaving in the morning? I found a smuggler while I was patrolling the perimeter today and”—

“Where’s there a smuggler, there’s a ship,” you finish for him. “And where there’s a ship, there’s a crew.” He nods to confirm that you’d understood his concerns. “I will be ready in the morning. Not much to pack. Though I would like to make sure that I speak with Cara before we leave?” 

“Absolutely. I actually need to speak to her as well, though I figure she’s of little help in the conversation department at this point in the evening,” he murmurs. You laugh in affirmation. “She was arm-wrestling a man with a tree trunk for an arm when I last saw her,” you chide. Both of you share another giggle of familiarity and caring for your sister. A soft snore pulls you from your reverie and you look away from the Mandalorian to a sleeping Grogu hanging by his hip. 

“I’ll be ready in the morning, promise,” you bow your head in parting to Beskar-clad behemoth of a man, and he returns your short bow as a clipped nod of the head. 

You recall that nod again as you drift off to sleep in the borrowed bed, listening to the songs of the krill and picturing the man behind the mask. _Maker, you think, is hiding behind a helmet like being hidden under a glove?_


	5. A New Start

You wake with a start just before daybreak, clutching your chest and trying to regain a steady breathing pattern. You were no stranger to nightmares of course, but they seemed to come in waves. Lately, they were becoming bad enough that you could recall them in vivid detail—making it hard to distinguish between dreams and memories the longer you turned them round and round in your head. The familiar sound of your sister’s boisterous laughter creeps through the cracks in the walls of the hut and you smile softly at the familiar timbre of her low, raspy voice. 

Rising to pull on your boots and pack your things, a spark of excitement shocks you into full consciousness. You are going to begin your new “job” today... or whatever this arrangement with the Mandalorian and his tiny Jedi is. You sling your few belongings into the satchel that hangs from your shoulder, smooth the sheets down to leave things tidy for your host, and slip out into the misty dawn of a Sorgan morning. Cara is standing next Omera, laughing at her daughter Winta’s valiant attempt at cutting her own hair. Winta has hacked off some very blunt, uneven bangs in front of her tiny face. She blows them up and out of her eyes, then returns to pouting about her error. 

“(Y/N), Winta is too much like you were as a child,” Cara teases, “stubborn enough to cut her own hair.” You wink at Cara and Omera before kneeling in front of Winta, who has crossed her arms in defiance of the women’s light chiding. 

“I think we can fix this. You’re not off to the worst start I’ve ever seen,” you whisper to Winta with a soft grin. “If you promise to hold very still, I’ll make them good as new.” You wait a moment until she nods sheepishly, pursing her lips to keep from giggling herself. Pulling a dark vibroblade from your glove and gently tilting it around in your hands so she can see it; her eyes go wide—not with fear, but with interest. A little warrior in the making. “Be very, very still,” you remind her quietly, and begin to work. In less than a minute, you’ve evened out the fringe in front of her face so that it frames her sweet eyes and she grins proudly. “Better,” Omera says, touching your shoulder softly. “Thank you, (Y/N). We’ll certainly miss you. You always have a place here.” 

You touch her hand as it rests on your shoulder then look to your sister who is reaching out for your other shoulder with her own hand, grasping it more firmly than Omera but communicating warmth and gentleness all the same. “You’ll stay in touch now that I know you’re alive, right, you little womp rat?” You snicker and nod, giving a quick kiss to the palm of her hand as you pull it from your frame. “I promise, Carasynthia.” She gives you a scowl accompanied by a wink. “You know I prefer Cara.” Setting off towards Mando and the child who are waiting at the end of the Main Street, you look over your shoulder one last time. “Tell me about it the next time I see you.” 

Returning your gaze to the man who is standing menacingly with his hand on his belt and the other around his small green child, you squint into the light reflected off of his chrome beskar. He waits until you reach them and nods before pivoting to begin the walk to the ship. After a few minutes of walking in near silence, apart from the sounds of Sorgan’s thriving ecosystems and light breeze rustling the long grass, you break the silence. 

“I hope to come back here some day.”

Your quiet confession is met with more silence as you stare at the back of Mando’s head. You think he is going to ignore you completely when he finally responds. 

“I do, too. There ... aren’t many places I can say that about.” 

Two large brown eyes meet yours as they peer around a large, armored bicep. A small giggle chortles out of the child’s mouth and you can’t help but beam. 

“Grogu seems to like it, too.” That gets the Mandalorian’s attention. He stops dead in his tracks and turns his head to look over his shoulder. “Grogu?” 

“Yes, that’s his name,” you offer gently, realizing that there would have been no way for him to discern that without the Force. Now Din has turned all the way around to face you—he’s close enough for you to reach out and touch and you have to resist the urge to put a hand on his chest plate. The child babbles a bit as he looks between the two of you, but his attention is quickly stolen by a yellow butterfly floating by. 

“Grogu,” Din says softly, lowly through the modulator. You can sense when his gaze moves from the child to yours, piercing you through the dark T-shaped visor. Without any further ceremony, Din turns once again and continues as if he had never stopped walking in the first place. 

———

“This will be your bunk,” Din says flatly, gesturing to a literal hole in the wall that was just revealed at the push of a button. “The child sleeps in there with me,” he explains, pointing at an identical bunk above which he has strung a small, brown hammock, “or in his pram.” 

You nod for the upteenth time in the last hour, enjoying Din’s very dry—albeit, thorough—tour of the Razor Crest. “Thank you,” you finally offer, sensing that he is done with the tour at last, climbing up into the cockpit after him. You settle in the copilot seat to his right and take the child into your hands, allowing him to sink into your lap. He falls asleep almost immediately. Din turns around to tell him to behave, but instead he sees you studying the sleeping child’s face; a feeling of warmth tickles at his throat and simmers in his chest. He nearly chokes on it. 

“We’re off to Tatooine first,” Din says quietly as your eyes finally meet his own. You nod, trying to breathe as you hold his stare. “I have a ... friend there who can help me fix a few things on the ship. I also have a job to finish”—

“A bounty?” You interrupt before you can stop yourself. 

He nods. 

“Sounds good.” 

You look back to your lap as he handles buttons and levers on the dashboard, preparing for take-off. “A friend,” you think to yourself. Damn it. Jedi aren’t allowed to form deep attachments with other people, but you had already decided that the Mandalorian and his child would have to be exceptions to that rule. And even if you weren’t sure how you felt about him just yet, you were shocked by the twinge of jealousy that reared its head at the mention of “a friend.”


	6. Handiwork

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On this episode of “No Beta, We Die Like Men,” I typed this in a groggy stupor instead of sleeping—I apologize in advance for what I assume is a GSP nightmare. Bon appetite.

Okay, so ... maybe you overreacted about Mando having “a friend.” Peli Motto reminds you so much of your crazy Aunt Marsha that it’s laughable, and you keep heaving a sigh of relief every time you see Mando visibily annoyed by her buoyancy and electric energy. You like Peli, a lot. Mando’s begrudging agreement to go along with her antics makes you think that maybe she’s not in his age range—maybe he’s younger than you thought? Maybe one day he’ll tell you, you think to yourself; a chuckle nearly escapes your lips—you don’t even know his name. Why would he tell you his age? The inner monologue running through your brain at warp speed is just another sign that you need sleep... or a good slap to the face... or maybe a drink. 

“(Y/N), you’re going to have to help me out with these repairs while Mando’s out hunting,” she begins, slapping a oil-slicked hand onto the back of your shoulder with a smile. Mando is unloading a few boxes from the Crest to make room for Peli’s tools, and you’ve somehow found yourself situated at the bottom of the ramp with Peli and Grogu on your hip. 

“She doesn’t ‘have’ to do anything, Peli,” Mando grumbles as he clinks down the ramp to join the three of you in the blazing sun. “I paid you a lot of money so that she wouldn’t have to work off my debt alongside your droids;” he practically spits the last word, reaffirming your discovery that he is not a big fan of the AI bots that seem to be teeming in Hangar 3-5. 

“I guess not,” Peli scoffs, twisting her lips and raising a brow. “But if you want to help, I won’t stop ya, sister.” 

You nod in understanding, grinning at the halo of frizz framing her face. If she weren’t wearing a jumpsuit and covered in grease, you wouldn’t imagine her as a mechanic.

“I think I better get some sleep before I operate any power tools,” you murmur. “Maybe tomorrow I can lend a hand.” Peli nods once more, then jauntily strolls off into her office. 

“I’ll be back in about a day,” Din starts, “so you’re in charge. Grogu, you better listen to (Y/N). She’s going to help you understand your... Force powers.” You stifle a giggle at Din’s fatherly tone and limited Jedi knowledge. Grogu coos in understanding as his father pats his head so quickly that you almost miss it. Almost. 

“If you don’t come back in a day... do I come to find you?” 

His body goes rigid at your question; you suspect you’re the first person to insist on taking care of him in a very long time. 

“If I don’t come back in a day, you can send someone on a speeder bike to find me. There are plenty of credits in the Crest to hire someone. No one shady, though.” The danger that seeps through his modulator makes your skin prickle with goosebumps. 

“I’m sure all will be well,” you say gently. “We’ll see you in a day, Mando.” You lift one of Grogu’s tiny green arms and wave it back and forth as if he were waving goodbye to the stoic man before you. The lightest hint of a laugh escapes the helmet and you see him flex his fingers in his leather gloves at his sides. 

“Din.” 

Your breath hitches in your chest as you sense the weight of what he has just shared; echoes of vulnerability and unsolicited trust ebb and flow around you as Din radiates a significant amount of emotion behind the blinding glare of the beskar shielding his body from the dangers of the world.

“Din,” you repeat breathily, afraid to say it loudly enough that anyone else could hear. Apart from Peli, only the droids would be in earshot... but you’re selfish with this gift. Before you can say anything else, he has already started to walk away, exiting the hangar into the dune sea beyond. In the distance, you see that he has mounted one of Peli’s speederbikes and is flying off into the expanse of sand, heat, and inhospitable conditions. 

  
———

As you promised Peli, you pitched in with the repairs after sleeping like the dead the night before. You’re wearing an extra set of work clothes that she lent you; they’re much cooler than all of the leather you usually wear and you’re grateful because the stifling heat was nearly enough to knock you out. You removed your gloves to keep them from being destroyed by grease, so you’re trying to ignore Peli’s blatant staring at your lefty hardware. She currently has you welding a panel back onto the side of the Crest. You’ve got a pair of speeder goggles to shield your eyes, and you managed to wrangle a second pair onto Grogu, who is now swaddled against your back, drifting in and out of sleep as you work. 

“You know, I didn’t think Mando would be the type to have crew mates,” Peli remarks offhandedly, failing to achieve the nonchalant delivery that you think she was likely hoping for. 

“He’s not,” teases a familiar modulated voice from the archway of the hangar. Grogu coos in delight at the return of his father. And you smile as you pull your goggles up onto your forehead. Din looks tired but he’s in one piece; he’s holding a dead quarry by the ankle. You’re surprised by how little you’re effected by bodies anymore. You’ve seen a lot of slaughter in your lifetime. 

“Well, look who’s back already!” Peli laughs to herself as she crawls out from under the bay that she was fiddling with, tearing your from your morbid thoughts. “I‘ll go make us some dinner so you can tell us about the hunt.” 

Din is dragging the body up the ramp of the Crest without another word, so you climb down the ladder to meet him at the base of the hatch when he returns. When you hear him coming back down, you start to pull the sling around your body so that Grogu rests on your front. A modulated chuckle startles you out of your cautious movements. 

“He looks like a cantina singer in those goggles,” Din offers lowly. You can’t help but laugh; he’s right. Maker, you think—who would have guessed that a deadly serious Mandalorian could also be funny. He gently pulls them off of his son’s head and takes him out of the sling to perch in the crook of an elbow. You slide your own goggles off your head, rubbing your palm into the skin as if it will relieve it of the goggle indentations left behind. 

“He and I tried to train a little bit earlier but he’s quite distracted when you’re gone. He worries about you.” 

Din is frozen in place at your remark, but you think it might just be because he’s touched; you hope that’s why and that it’s not because you hadn’t accomplished much training during his absence.

“Supper!” Peli shouts before you can ask. You turn to head inside but a leather-clad hand gently catches your left elbow just above your prosthetic. You turn back around to face Din and find that he’s only about a foot away. Your lips part at the sudden closeness and you feel a deep blush creeping up your neck. He doesn’t say anything, but instead he uses the corner of his cloak to wipe a smudge of grease off of your face before nods his head towards Peli’s living quarters.

“Focus,” you murmur to yourself as you follow after him. “Remember your mission.” 


	7. Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hon hon hon, we get a little taste of ~something brewing here~...

  
“Wake up and quit screaming like a banshee!” Peli’s shrill warning is the first thing you register, followed by her hands digging into your collarbone as she rattles you at the shoulders. Your throat burns as you release a hoarse whisper: “Wh... what?”

“You were screamin’ in your sleep,” Peli scoffs lightly, sitting down on the chair next to the cot she had been letting you sleep on during your stay. “Nearly gave me a heart attack.” 

“I’m—I’m sorry,” you stutter out, grimacing as you wipe sleep from your eyes and try to still your heaving chest. This happens far too often for your taste.

“It’s not your fault. Try to go back to sleep,” Peli murmurs as she rises from her perch and gently pats your knee on her way out. That’s when you see him, standing in the corner, clutching Grogu to his chest—Mando silently watches Peli leave as his visor slowly returns to its focus on your face. 

“I’m sorry for waking you two... I didn’t realize...” you swallow thickly, feeling the lingering effects of your panic lodged in your throat. “One of the downsides of being in tune with the Force is that you feel things deeply, remember them vividly—including... well, including dark things.” 

Cautiously, Din crosses the short distance and lowers himself into the chair that Peli had collapsed in momentarily. He tilts his head to look at Grogu and you can tell that he wonders if his adopted son feels the same pain. 

“Grogu,” you continue, “has many dark memories of his own. But because he is still a child, they are less vivid. More surreal, like flashes of a dream or shapes... shadows. I suspect they will fade with time, but he will make new, dark memories. That is the way of it.” 

“This is the way,” Din remarks lowly, barely crackling through the modulator in the matte darkness of the starless night seeping in through the dusty window. 

“So it seems,” you reply, lowering your head back down to the pillow and releasing a puff of air from your spastic lungs. Even with your eyes closed, you can feel Din’s stare boring into your face. He says nothing, just pets one of the comically large ears on the groggy child in his arms. 

Minutes pass in the comfortable silence until you, stupidly, break it. “Din,” you breathe, slowly opening your eyes to meet the darkened visor of your armored traveling companion. Your breath catches again as you try to think of what to say next. It dawns on you that he may actually be asleep. Then he speaks, so softly you can hardly hear.

“You can sleep, (Y/N). I’ll stay right here.” 

Any remaining anxiety in your body melts away and is replaced with a fluttering low and deep inside your exhausted frame. Had you known that was what you needed from him, you would have asked. But somehow having him offer it of his own volition was better. You nod, then glance away, suddenly feeling an unfamiliar shyness burning under your clammy cheeks. You turn onto your stomach and bury your face in the pillow; soon enough, you slip over the edge into a quiet, dreamless sleep, taking in the rhythmic hum of Din’s deep breathing through his helmet til the last.

———

You wake before Din, who is passed out cold in the chair even though you can tell that sunlight is starting to bloom over the dunes. Gently, you take Grogu from his arms and feel him buzzing with energy that only young children can seem to muster first thing in the morning. The two of you tiptoe outside into the warm breeze that is drifting through the hangar. You breathe in the fresh air as Grogu lets out a delighted squeal, shifting back and forth in your own clothes now—enjoying the return to the safety of leather and cloth, especially your gloves and cloak. 

“We’re traveling today, little one,” you explain, “but I think we should have another lesson before we’re cooped up in the Razor Crest, hm?” He babbles in response, pulling on a long strand of hair that has fallen in front of your face. Gently setting him onto a nearby work table, you sit with your legs crossed and face him at eye level. Gosh, those big brown eyes—they stir a warmth in your chest as you think of Master Yaddle’s kind face. Her eyes were dark, too, but she seemed to have grown into them. 

You steady yourself, eyes closed in determination, and slowly feel for Grogu’s energy through the force. You find him easily, like a neon green cantina sign—electric and bright, full of the optimism and unbridled joy that is only found in the soul of a child. Your energy, unlike your sabers, is far from green. Soft, reserved—glowing rather than buzzing—your connection to the force dances around you; it is silvery and pearlescent, a morning dove among hawks. 

Grogu coos as he realizes what you are asking of him. His thoughts indicate that he had been taught to meditate early on, but that he had not done it in a while. You offer him a gentle push, mentally telling him that he is safe and that you will not leave him. As you both lock into your concentration, he begins to hover lightly over the tables, his robes just clearing its steely surface. You remain grounded, ready to catch him at a moment’s notice. You stay like this for nearly half an hour, feeling the warmth of the sun settle onto the skin of your face and whispering golden light through the white fuzz on the baby’s head. Peace. 

“Requesting permission to disembark with my table,” a droid buzzes flatly far too close to your ear. You open your eyes to glance at him, half-lidded annoyance steeping your gaze. “Very well, you agree,” picking up Grogu and letting the droid have his work table. As you are heading inside with the baby, who is far calmer that he was when you first awoke to his chaotic eagerness, rests quietly in your arms. Peli is the first to reach for him as Din darkens the doorway of the bedroom that you had left him in. 

“I’ve got to get in as many snuggles as possible before this little guy goes off on his next adventure, hm?” Peli taps his nose lightly, then returns to whatever she was trying to stir up for breakfast. You nod at Din who tilts his head slightly as if he is taking you in, making sure that you had recovered from last night’s fit of panicked sleep. He stares just a little too long. You stare right back. 


	8. Unanswered Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m sweating.

“Entering hyper space in 5,” Din calls down to you from the cockpit as you feed the child his dinner in the hull of the ship. “Roger that,” you yell back, stifling a giggle at what he will likely interpret as your attempt at being official—you intend for it to be a joke, but your comedic delivery seems to be dampened by the presence of so much... beskar. You chew on your bottom lip, praying that he won’t mention it as he clinks his way down the ladder. 

The baby lets out a delighted squeal at the sight of his figure, causing you to drop the spoon back into the nearly empty bowl of rehydrated protein paste. 

“He should fall asleep soon,” Din murmurs, “hopefully. He has had a long day.” 

The three of you had been jumping in and out of hyperspace since leaving Peli’s after breakfast, testing out the repairs of the ship and recharting a course to Hoth several times. The baby had launched into a tantrum every time the ship lurched in and out of the warped vacuum of hyperspace, leaving you and Din with frayed nerves and dwindling patience. “He has indeed,” you chuckle softly.

You slip your cloak off of your shoulders and wrap it around Grogu as you set him into his pram, willing him to drift off for at least a few hours... which he does. “Thank the Maker,” you sigh, earning an affirmative rumble from Din. 

“I need to ask you some questions,” Din say quickly, rigidly, as if he had been up in the cockpit trying to figure out how he would start this conversation. You can sense his nervous energy, as if the rigidity of his armored body weren’t enough of telltale sign. Nodding, you lower yourself back onto the crate where you had been sitting; he sits down next to you, careful not to sit on your cloak. It is painfully silent for a few minutes until you encourage him to just come out with it. 

“I’m an open book, Din.” He coughs, startled by your willingness to share, and watches his own hands as he twists a few of his gloved fingers into the opposite palm. 

“I need to know if you think Grogu is... good.” You raise an eyebrow, confused by his remark. 

“I think Grogu is lovely, but I don’t think that’s what you’re asking.” 

He shakes his head lightly, and turns to meet your gaze through the visor. “I mean is he—is he going to be good, or is he going to be like the Emporer?” 

Your jaw slackens slightly in shock, but you quickly realize that his concern is understandable. For someone with next to no knowledge of the Force or Jedi, the Sith were (and are) a poor but salient representation of force-sensitive beings.

“The child is incredibly powerful,” you begin, “and has been trained, in his past, by other powerful people. They... mistreated him. Hurt him.” Your chest burns as you recall some of the images that Grogu had revealed to you when he reached out initially. “But, they have not twisted him into a monster. He is good, through and through. He has no malice, even though”—

“Even though others would, yes. I figured.” Din’s interruption is accompanied by a slight wave of relaxation in his shoulders and sigh of relief. 

“He is nothing like the Emporer and that will never change,” you say assuredly, placing a hand over Din’s fiddling ones before you can stop yourself. He stills immediately and you forget how to breathe. You don’t move your hand for fear that you will float off into the swirling hyperspace if you even think about stirring. 

“I also want to know,” the modulated voice crackles stiffly as if Din’s jaw is locked shut, “if you can help me stitch up...” You grimace as he pulls off his cuirass and drags his tunic up his torso. He reveals a huge gash across his sternum, likely from a jagged blade that the bounty had slashed at him with on Tatooine. It is dark and angry as if it had tried to heal but had been disrupted. 

“Din, why didn’t you say something sooner?” You lurch into motion, tearing through the cabinet for a medpac. Finding one, you kneel in front of him before the crate and push on his shoulder until he is leaning back against the wall. Pulling your right glove off so that you can touch him with a clean hand, you quirk an eyebrow, wordlessly requesting an explanation.

“I tried to fix it myself when I came back from the hunt”—he pauses to hiss as you swipe antiseptic over it—“and I thought it was fine. But I must have reopened it while loading the Crest earlier.”   
You look up at him through your lashes, resisting the urge to scold him for fear that it would only cause him to shove you off of his body and suffer in stubborn silence. 

“I think some bacta and gauze should do the trick...” you offer as you bite down on your lower lip in concentration, gently smearing the thick bacta gel over the wound. You can feel his eyes on you through the helmet and realization strikes you: you are seeing his bare chest, a beautiful expanse of tanned skin littered with a few scars here and there—constellations of dark freckles taunt you; you want to run your fingers across them. Secondly, you are very, very close. Frozen in place, your eyes dart up to the smooth surface of his helmet. The warmth of his skin seems to sear your finger like your lightsaber burns through the bark of tree—soundlessly, effectively, all at once—and yet you leave them there, pressing the cool bacta into his chest.

A glove that you hadn’t even realized had moved its dancing across your cheek, soft as a feather; timid. His thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone and drift down to gently pull your lip out of the iron grip of your teeth. He runs it slowly, tortuously across the bite marks left there. You hear your heartbeat rattling in your ears and think, anxiously, ‘can he hear it, too?’ As quickly as the hand had appeared, it leaves, returning to its grip on the edge of the crate. 

You apply the gauze with a shaky hand, staring directly into the space between his pecs, refusing to meet his visor until he utters a soft “thank you” and gently pulls the tunic back down. You nod, closing your mouth, cursing the Maker for letting you gape at him like a fish. “Any time,” you croak.


	9. Spontaneity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this *after midnight*, so major apologies—no beta, we die like men. This one has a smidge of Din POV so I’m also v sorry for weird shifts in tense. 
> 
> Also, thank you for your feedback and kind words! Come find me on tumblr (same username); I have no idea how to use it so teach how it works (LOL, Unless...). 
> 
> TW: Mention of blood?

Several days have passed since Din touched your face, but you can still feel the touch of worn leather on your burning cheek when you close your eyes. You’re laying on a work bench underneath the Crest staring at a panel and willing the wires to uncross themselves. Geonosis’ arid climate is similar to the desert-scape of Tatooine, but eerily quiet with a distinct lake of Peli Motto. You aren’t much of a mechanic, but Din left you with a list of things you could attempt between Grogu’s meals and training sessions, so you’re trying your best... which isn’t great, but it’s something. 

The baby is swaddled to your chest, gazing up at the wires and cooing about his boredom. You can feel your long braid dipping into the sand below the bench and you twist your lips in disgust—you have been so busy with the baby for the last couple of days that you haven’t taken a proper shower. Making a few more attempts to straighten up the electric ball of wiring and finally deciding that they would have to be in vain, you peel yourself off of the steel sticking to the damp fabric of your shirt and head inside, bringing the ramp up behind you and locking down the ship. 

You give Grogu a bath first, scrubbing him as he splashes happily in the sink of the galley, then he crashes due to the perfect combination of Force training and all of the time spent in the sun since breakfast. Once he’s tucked in his hammock hovering over Mando’s bunk, you close the panel and seal him in. You’d have to shower quickly in case he wakes from his nap and starts to get fussy. 

The fluorescent lights of the refresher hum consistently, and you allow yourself to enjoy the peaceful white noise. You take your clothes off with a grimace—grateful to be rid of them—but shivering against the cold of the tiny room. The shower spray is just a hair warmer than ice water and you let it beat down on your flushed back, replacing the Geonosian heat with goosebumps. Turning to let it rush down your front, you feel it drumming against your sternum and think of touching Din’s the other evening. “Dank farrik,” you murmur under your breath, recalling some of the teachings of your friend Ahsoka Tano during your time on Coruscant. 

“Attachments are dangerous,” she warned, “for many reasons. But above all else, they make us vulnerable—less alert, far less inclined towards self-preservation and agility—they make us into to targets in more ways than one.” You remember her kind eyes turning to meet the stoic face of Consular Obi-Wan Kenobi, who nodded gravely, a gesture that he wore often and well. “Many Jedi have fallen in love. They have souls after all, and are certainly not heartless beings. But almost every single one of them died for it, or worse...” 

Shaking the memory from your mind, you finish washing the sweat and sand out of your hair that is nearly past your waste at this point. It has become a nuisance lately, especially with the lifestyle you’ve adopted as the newest crew member and companion of the Razor Crest’s inhabitants. It is decided, you think to yourself—you’re going to cut your hair.

———

Din enters the Crest and quickly closes the hatch to keep the sandstorm out. It’s not unusual for him to haul an unconscious bounty in to the freezing chamber, but rarely ever does he have to wipe so much blood off of the floor. This job was a messy one, in a lot of ways. He is grateful to be greeted by the sound of you rustling around in the ‘fresher and a snoring Grogu because it gives him some time to clean up the hull and keep the two of you from witnessing the scene. He is just finishing up when he hears you sliding the door open and looking around at the polished floor to where he is kneeling; he sees your bare feet first, then black training trousers, a black tank top, and your freshly scrubbed face—he stops breathing.

“Did you find the bounty?” You ask curiously, trying to peer around him into the cargo bay to see if you can spy a new carbonite slab. He is frozen in place, unable to stand, as he watches you examine him, trying to find an answer to your question. After a few moments, he watches concern grip your brow and you start to ask again. “Din?”—

“You cut your hair.” He says it quickly and gruffly, choking on the words as they spill out of his mouth at 100mph. Your gaze instantly darts to the floor and your right hand nervously toys with the end of a long strand at the front of your long, piecey bob—it grazes your collarbone just so. 

“I, yes... It was getting too long, so”—

“It’s nice.” 

Your stammering stops and your gaze flies back up to meet his visor. He can see a slight blush creeping up your cheeks and is fully aware that his own are blazing against the pressure of his helmet. 

“Oh, thank you,” you offer softly as your fingers drift from the strand of hair to rest lightly over your lips, concealing a grin. Din nods and clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. “I tried to fix the wires,” you quip, praying to the Maker that it will be enough to change the subject from your spontaneous haircut to the failed maintenance attempt from nearly an hour ago. “I would suggest that you take a look at them before we take off.” You both chuckle in unison at that as Din starts to approach cautiously... slowly, as if he hadn’t closed that space with a simple caress of the cheek days ago. 

“It suits you, (Y/N),” he breathes, tucking a strand behind your ear and tilting your chin up. 

“The inability to fix wires?” You joke at a whisper, aching to feel the touch of his real hand on your skin without the barrier of the warm leather. He laughs and doesn’t answer your question, but shakes his head softly as he twirls a strand of your hair around his finger. 

Kriff, you think urgently, don’t give in. Focus. 


	10. The Projectionist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first section before the divider is a flashback; you’ll note that it’s also in italics for clarity. This chapter was getting too long, so I’ve chopped it in 2. This is part 1. Cheers!

_  
“When a Master you are, understand you will” hisses Yaddle as she stitches a gash over your unruly eyebrow closed. You keep staring at her twisted lips, unable to make direct eye contact with your disappointed Master. Being a Padawan has been, among other things, a crash course in how to sit still for first aid. You aren’t as quick or as fast as your peers. Kriff, Ahsoka could spar circles around you any day, if she weren’t your friend, that is. If you were an enemy, she would just spar you straight to death. But no one could project images, memories ... dreams, like you. It got you into trouble more than you cared to admit._

_On this particular occasion, you are wincing at the sting in your eyebrow but also at Yaddle’s disapproval of your earlier encounter with Ahsoka’s Master, Anakin Skywalker. Not meeting her standards always put an ache in your chest and a pit in your stomach. Still, you didn’t think that you were in the wrong necessarily._

_“Tell me what you did and maybe lessen your punishment I will,” Yaddle offers cooly. You finally peek up at her through your lashes, twisting your own lips to match her expression. “And do NOT tell me that started it he did,” she added quickly. Pulling your bottom lip between your teeth and chewing nervously, you sigh an exhale of surrender and prepare to tell your story._

_“Ahsoka said that Master Skywalker had shown her a dark vision of Master Kenobi dying at the hand of a Sith Lord. I told her that he couldn’t possibly make a scarier image up than me,” you trail off as your gaze returns to your lap; “... so I told her that I would show him something even worse.”_

_Yaddle’s jaw drops in shock at your audacity and arrogance, both things she had intended to beat out of you with very slow but steady success. Your Dune genetics made it very hard to submit to her persistent demands for inner peace, but you tried to channel the quiet grace of your Master more desperately than she ever got to know. Still, it was very hard to resist a challenge._

_“What did he see, hmm?” She cocks a wrinkled, green eyebrow which shifts some of her flaming red hair across her forehead. You don’t answer quickly enough for her tastes, so she reaches out a three-fingered hand and extends it to you; she stops short of grabbing your own, but her claws graze the calloused skin of your palm._

_You can hardly swallow as you close the distance, gripping her hand and clenching your eyes shut. The vision explodes to life in your head and you feel Yaddle tense as it takes over her own mind. The Force ricochets from your hammering heart to hers, firing back and forth between your conscience and hers. The image is of a Sith Lord killing Kenobi, but he is an old man. Gray hair replaces red and the marks of the passing of time dapple his skin. The Sith is tall, dark, and more metal than man. He kills Kenobi with no remorse, then removes his helmet to reveal his face._

_You feel Yaddle’s lungs seize as she takes in a sharp breath, gasping in her state of shock at Anakin’s face under the helmet. As quickly as the image had burst into to color, it disappears and you’re left blinking into your Master’s panicked face once more. Her grip is like a vice around your hand, and your lungs burn in the painful silence. You are young, not yet wise enough to know your place as a Padawan—and certainly not in the position to show such a threatening, accusatory image to a Master. Yaddle chastises you silently, projecting her own thoughts on your behavior into your mind before releasing your hand._

_“Clever girl, you are, (Y/N). Wise, you are not.” Your eyes sting, glaring down at the floor and awaiting your punishment. “Yet,” Yaddle murmurs softly, using a claw to tip your chin back up to return your gaze. “A temper, has Master Skywalker,” she whispers lowly, “Merciful he has been, this time.”_

_Merciful? The hilt of a sheathed lightsaber to the eyebrow hardly feels like mercy. But, then it again, it could have been drawn._

_“Until better you become at deciding what to share, visions and images you must keep to yourself, hmm... Yes, better this way it will be.” Yaddle’s features have softened now, and you resist the urge to fight with her, nodding solemnly in acceptance of her commands._

——— 

“Come on, Grogu,” you whisper, your hand rests lightly on his fuzzy forehead. He’s sitting on a crate in the hull where you are seated on the floor in front of him, cross-legged and bundled up as the snow outside whips around the Crest. 

Din has been gone for 3 days. He said he would radio in by Day 4, but that was before the blizzard began. You’ve been worried sick since the storm started and had thought about trying the comm link early—but the only things worse than Din being in danger already would be putting him in it by giving away his cover, so you refrain. You and Grogu have been training diligently to pass the time. Today, you had a wild hair to teach him how to project images that you had not seen with your own eyes—visions of the future, dreams, figments of your imagination...

He is stubborn, but he is good at projecting. He keeps showing you images of Din playing with him in the floor of the cockpit or Greef Karga showing him how pucks work. Mostly, they’re just memories of quiet moments with Din—watching him fly the Crest through hyperspace, falling asleep in the hammock above his cot, chewing on a silver knob that he likes to steal from a lever in the cockpit only to have Din sheepishly reprimand him. It makes your stomach churn and your heart aches at the child’s adoration for his father made of beskar. He also shows you Cara working in her office with her feet propped up on the desk, Omera braiding Winta’s hair, and an Ugnaught breaking a wild blurrg.

Yet, you can’t seem to get him to show you things that aren’t memories or the current status of people he has met. It’s this realization that causes your breath to halt to a stop when the kid shows you an image of Din bleeding out in a cave, fighting off some kind of snow beast with the butt of his Amban pulse rifle. Grogu begins to wail, clutching at your hands and drawing them to his face. Your eyes fly open to meet his giant brown ones, which are brimming with tears and dilated dramatically.

“Grogu, listen to me—is this happening right now?” Your voice sounds like someone else’s off in the distance, scratchy and lifeless, desperate for answers. He nods in affirmation then returns to his wailing. Moving more quickly than you thought could be possible after hours of sitting stiffly on a steel floor, you fly across the hull to the kid’s hammock and stuff him into the rest of his clothes that you hadn’t already layered over his typical brown smock. Once he looks like throw pillow with ears, you use his favorite linen sarong to swaddle him tightly to your front. 

Pulling on an extra pair of socks and your warmest boots, you quickly tuck a vibroblade into your right shoe. Then, you slide your longest gloves on over your arms, stopping for a fraction of a second to look at the metallic machinery flexing itself in imitation of your left forearm. “Don’t freeze,” you tell the prosthetic absentmindedly. You learned the hard way that it doesn’t move well in the cold after your last mission to a glacial planet in the Unknown Region. Goggles and a scarf cover your flushed face as you pull the hood of your cloak up over your head. Patting the child’s back in a desperate attempt at comfort, you strap one of Din’s blasters to your thigh and run your hands over the lightsabers at your hips. “Okay, baby... lead the way.” A tiny claw finds your collarbone and presses lightly, sending a whisper of a vision pulsing through your mind. North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day! Let me know that you’re enjoying it or if you have some feedback to share. Xx Peppa


	11. Just Like Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brace for impact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II of the giant chapter. Enjoy. Xx

It takes you four hours of trudging through Hoth’s endless sea of snow to find the cave. Your lungs feel like what you imagine swallowing untempered spotchka would feel like—cold, acidic, yet somehow also on fire. You keep violently rubbing the sarong where Grogu’s tiny back should be, hoping that the added friction will keep him extra warm. He coos lightly every few minutes to let you know that you’re on the right track, but now he is squirming as you tentatively squint into the unbelievable darkness of the cave. It’s eerily quiet until you hear the sound of a familiar rifle. _Din_. 

Your legs are pumping before your arms can catch up; your twin sabers hum to life, illuminating the glassy walls of the frozen cave. It’s then that you see a distant glint of frosted beskar as a familiar helmet snaps to face you. You hear him yelling something as he throws an arm up to stop you from sprinting any closer, but you can’t hear it over the deafening roar that bellows out of the shadows to your left. Before you can sheath your sabers and plunge you and the baby back into the cover of darkness, a giant claw latches onto your forearm and squeezes. You take the opportunity to slice at the paw silently with your other saber, separating it from its owner who shrinks back into the blackness with a whimper. The baby cries helplessly into your chest as you sheath the saber in your hand and hook it to your hip, then pick up the other one that had been discarded on the floor with the remains of your crumpled metallic hand. 

“(Y/N)?” Din’s voice is raspy and faint as he calls to you from the end of the cave. You jog the remainder of the stretch to him and throw yourself into the rocky floor to kneel next to him, disregarding the pain that shoots through your kneecaps and up your legs. His cuirass is covered in blood, though you can tell that only some of it is his. His breathing is slow and shallow, but he expels some energy as he reaches up to gingerly touch a green ear that has wormed its way out of the sarong. He tucks it back in gently, then the hand falls into his lap. You softly ease the lightsaber into it and he tightens his grip on the blazing weapon. You push your goggles up to your forehead and rip the scarf from over your face. The initial shock of the sight of him takes the backburner as you tear through your pockets with your remaining hand for the medpac that you had disassembled and shoved into every possible place in your layered outfit. 

“Are you—are you okay?” He sounds like he’s slipping out of consciousness, and it sends a shiver of horror down your spine. 

“I’m alright, it just caught my prosthetic,” you murmur in response as you tear an antiseptic kit open with your teeth. “How many people can say that they lost the same arm twice?” Your joke falls flat, partly because of the nervous delivery, and partially because Din’s head is lolling to the side. 

“Din, you have to stay with me.” He returns a faint groan through the modulator as you pry the cuirass off of his collapsed frame and lift his shirt. His body looks fairly normal underneath his tunic, and there certainly isn’t a new cut. “Where are you hurt? What can I do?” Your eyebrows furrow with authority, but your voice is shaking. 

“It’s my head, cyare, you have to just...” He swallows thickly, not daring to finish the sentence. You aren’t sure what the Mando’a means, but you assume that he is alluding to how badly he is injured—that he doesn’t have the Basic to describe what has happened to him in this cave. 

“Din—”

“You h-have mandokar,” he says over your protest. _He’s really slipping now, you think—did he just refer to himself in the third person?_

“Yes, I’ve got you,” you reassure him. “I have to take your helmet off to help. I can close my eyes.” You continue to plead as the green baby thrashes around violently until those big, brown saucers peer over the fabric at the fallen Mandalorian. 

Din shakes his head, grunting at the pain of the exertion. “I can’t take it off, I swore an oath. I have”—

“A Creed ... THE Creed, yes. I know. But you’re going to die if you don’t.” Your voice cracks on the last word, and you bite back a sob that threatens to tear its way from your burning throat. But then, a wave of energy from the child soars through your chest, inviting an idea—a hope—that you had yet to consider. You reach carefully for your saber and take it from Din; he lets out an uncharacteristic gasp. 

“I’m not leaving you here, I’m just sheathing it.” You join it to your hip with a trembling hand. He relaxes as the darkness swallows you both.

“I’m tying my scarf over my eyes, but I need your help.” A beat passes before a damp leather glove brushes yours out of the way and ties the scarf behind your head.

“I still can’t—” 

“I know. I’m not asking you to,” you explain gently, pressing your hand to his chest. “I have to keep my eyes shut to do this, and I can’t mess it up... so this is for extra assurance.” Your tone is slightly uneasy and you try to feed some confidence to it, but Din doesn’t seem to notice. “Do you trust me?”

Din doesn’t verbally answer and a twinge of panic lodges behind your temples, urging you to pull the blindfold off and look for the rise and fall of his chest. But it is washed away with the pressure of a glove pushing your hand harder into his sternum. This is the second time, you think to yourself in a fleeting moment of distraction, that you’ve felt woozy because your hand has lingered at his heart center just a little too long.

“Yes,” he breathes; it’s a labored word, heavy because of the weight it bears and because he is running out of steam. You smile softly at his confession and try to pull the baby out of the sarong; it’s tricky with one hand and you feel Din reach for his son before you drop him. You both chuckle a little bit, lessening some of the tension of the moment ever so slightly. 

“Hold still,” you whisper, placing your hand on his neck. He shivers. Slowly, feather-light, you push your trembling fingers up into the helmet. There’s blood, yes, but there’s also stubble. He has a beard?

 _Focus_ , you think to yourself. That seems to be your new motto. 

You steady your breathing, like Yaddle taught you to so many years ago, as you hear her weathered voice echo through your memory: “You are once with the Force, the Force is with you. Inhale energy, exhale life.” The process is taxing. Your body is reaching to its core for the glowing embers of the Force and fanning them into flames, drawing on the living things buried deep under the snow and defying the odds outside of this cave. They are few and far between, but they are there. Microscopic and nearly mindless, but alive. Every breath you take in is a surge of power and every time you exhale it’s feels like falling off of a bantha and having your lungs collapse from the impact. But you’re sending the flame into Din, breathing his embers to life—a warm glow of healing, a battle cry for recovery of his battered and broken body. 

You feel his jaw tense under your touch as your fingers shift ever so slightly to his lips, but his breathing is becoming steadier and the eerie dampness of blood on his skin is receding. Grogu coos curiously as he can feel the process happening through the Force. Your breathing starts to falter as you feel Din shifting beneath your touch; you sense next to no pain in him and decide that it should be enough to save him, for now. Your hand slips out from under his helmet and you slump forward to catch yourself on his pauldron. Your breathing is shallow but steady; it fogs up the surface of his helmet as you rest your forehead over where his would be.

“H-how... how—” Din hunts for his words as one hand leaves the baby to support you at the hip. 

“The Force.” You are suddenly keenly aware of how cold it is in the depths of the cave, especially with icy beskar pressed to the bare skin of your face. You move to unwrap the scarf from your eyes, but the glove that had helped you put it there engulfs your wrist and holds it above your head for just a moment. 

“Wait,” hums Din, with his voice comfortingly back to its typical, smooth, modulated baritone. Your lips part ever so slightly, confused by his request, until you hear the tell-tale hiss of a releasing pressure lock. 

“Din,” you quip; it’s a pointed sound, a question in the dark. Your voice is pitched up in concern and all you hear in return is the rapid thrumming of your heartbeat in your ears. “W-what are you doing?” This time it’s hardly a whisper, squeaked through your trembling lips. 

“Hold still,” he commands. His unmodulated voice sets your entire body on fire. _It’s really not cold in this cave anymore_ , you think absently. Your words from earlier sound far more certain coming from his mouth. His mouth, his human mouth underneath a mouthless plane of beskar and visor, is mere inches from your own. Your lips part to say his name again, but instead, they are met with his. 

You’re pretty sure you know why Mandalorians and the Jedi were ancient enemies, now. If every time a Mandalorian kissed a Jedi felt like this, there would only be Mandalorians. The Jedi would lay down their arms and join the faceless, nameless tribe of brothers or die trying. Vode an. But maybe there’s a chance, you think, that it’s just Din and he happens to be pleasure itself, all the world’s passion packed into a suit of beskar with some stubble and shamelessly roaming hands. 

You let out a gasp against his lips—it’s more like a moan really, but you can’t bring yourself to care—and you feel him smiling against you. He draws back only slightly just to look at you, cradling your flushed face in his hands. “What is it, cyare?” Your hand, frozen suspended above your head though he had released his grip long ago, drops to his jaw, cradling him in kind. There are no words, you just suck more air in like a fish. “You broke your Creed for me,” you say softly, a slight downward tilt of your head pushing your jaw further into his hands. 

“I’m pretty sure you broke your Code for me,” he chides quietly; you can hear the smirk on his lips as he says it. “No attachments, right?” This time he’s more serious, and you can tell that he’s not totally confident in the implications of his question. You bite your lip as it curls into your own sheepish grin. 

“I couldn’t help it, Din—”

“Me neither.” He kisses you again, but this time you’re the one smiling. There’s no going back now. Codes and creeds feel far less important when your soul tells you that something else is _more_ right. 


	12. Guests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 85 kudos?! You are spoiling me, you lovely bunch you. Thanks a million. Xx

  
By the time you make it back to the ship, you and Din are chilled to the bone. You are struggling to determine whether or not it’s the harsh polar wind beating against the few inches of skin exposed around your goggles or the events of the cave that are encouraging a lingering heat that is only present in your face, but you heave a sigh of relief as the ramp to the hull raises behind the three of you after mashing down nearly 9 feet or so of snowfall that collected in front of it. The child, luckily, has absorbed any warmth you had left and is fast asleep in the sarong; you successfully transfer him into the cozy familiarity of his pram and shut the lid to keep the sound of howling Hoth winds at bay. 

You can hear the creaking of leather and the clinking of beskar as Din tries to remove his armor and peel the dampened underclothes off of his body. You are about to do the same when a siren blares to life in the cockpit, followed by a loud crunching sound. “Wh—” Din starts, but he’s cut short by the loss of power that sends the hull into black nothingness and an eerie quiet that one never wants to hear in a ship half-buried in snow. The quiet is short-lived, breeched by the sound of feet on the roof. You can discern at least several pairs clanking around on the frostbitten durasteel. Without making any sudden movements for fear that even shifting your weight would cause the floor to groan under you in protest, your eyes creep over to meet Din’s through his visor. He is stone still, like you, with his hand over the blaster at his hip. 

Then, the comm link in his belt beeps once, twice, then blares the last message you were expecting: “Mando, you’ll thank me for this one day!”  
  
Cara. 

The ramp flies open, unencumbered by its usual locks and hydraulics that keep it safely sealed when the power is on. Cara Dune, Greef Karga, and another Mandalorian climb into the hull from the roof before you and Din can register what is happening, blinded by the contrast between the powerless ship and the impossible white of the blizzard outside. 

“Cara?!” Your high-pitched whisper doesn’t quite express your incredulity at your sister’s bizarre rescue—is that what this is? 

“I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” Cara’s boisterous voice is like music to your ears as it echoes around the icy hull. 

“H-how...?” 

“I had an inkling,” she says with a shrug as she slaps a hand onto Din’s pauldron on her way to squeeze the daylights out of you. You hear did let out a disgruntled huff as he turns to a smiling Karga and the other Mando sporting dark green beskar. 

“It wasn’t so much an inkling on Cara’s part but a report from another Guild member that I sent out here after we hadn’t heard from you at check-in,” explains Karga as he shoots Cara a sheepish grin. You watch the conversation unfurl from over your sister’s shoulder, let her hug some warmth back into your shivering frame. 

“C-can we shut the r-ramp?” You stammer through the trembles wracking your body as it starts to realize the dramatic temperature difference between outside and the muscular hold of an ex-shock trooper. 

Karga and the stranger shut it quickly as Din begins to speak. “It has been ages, Boba Fett.” The man nods solemnly behind the matte plane of his mossy helmet. He is, you decide, far more intimidating than Din. Maybe he needs to spend some time holding a certain green baby... 

“Yes, Mando. Far too long, I’m afraid.”

———

The size and power of Karga’s freighter— or, the Guild’s freighter that Karga had “borrowed on the down low”—is enough to magnetize to the Razor Crest and arrive at a nearby moon for repairs. All of you are in the hold of his ship, warm and well-lit again. You are sitting on a crate next to Din who has placed a gloved hand over your knee under the table as if you would float away if he weren’t holding you down. It causes you to blush slightly, so you hold your steaming teacup up to your face in the hopes that Cara will just think that the cause. 

Luckily, she is too occupied with the very long, very tense arm-wrestling match that she had challenged Din to over half an hour ago to notice your expression. Neither had moved a muscle from their starting place and you could tell one would break soon at the way their arms tremble. 

“You’re done, Mando,” she hisses through clenched teeth. 

“I will be, soon... when you lose,” he says evenly through his visor, though you can hear that he is gritting his own teeth, too. Boba Fett lets out a small chuckle to your left, then shakes his head softly as you meet his gaze. 

“Two of the most stubborn people I know,” he snickers at you, earning a laugh in return. “I would have to agree, though both of them seem to be totally oblivious. Boba laughs lowly at your comment before turning to Karga. The two share a wordless exchange before turning back to look at you nervously. Before you can ask what is wrong, Boba interrupts to explain. 

“(Y/N), I accompanied your sister and Greef Karga here in the hopes that you would have some information for me.” You try to keep your face neutral before nodding, hoping that he would elaborate. “I have reason to believe that a friend of mine has been on the run with someone you know.” You rack your brain for who you and Boba Fett could possibly call a mutual friend. “Fennec Shand is my business partner and friend, and she has been running from some bounty hunters on Tatooine with a Jedi named Ahsoka Tano.” Your hand flies to grip Din’s hand resting on your knee, causing him to lose his focus and allowing Cara a finite window in which she is able to slam his vambrance down into the table. Her victory whoop sounds distant as your mind begins to reel. Din couldn’t care less about his sudden loss but is, instead, trying to lessen the death grip that you have on his hand. 

“Ahsoka Tano,” you murmur as tears brim in your tired eyes. “Alive.”


	13. BB-12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short! :( I am a student and an employee and a person and it makes it VERY HARD to find time to write things that I like. ;) I so appreciate your patience. 
> 
> *Italics are flashback.

_“(Y/N), you must not let grief consume you,” Ahsoka had murmured into your ear, behind which was tucked a long, tight braid of your hair—an identifier for Padawans. She had been sparring with you for hours yet the waves of grief rolling off of you had not lessened any with exhaustion. “What_   
_would Master Yaddle say if she were here?” You closed your eyes again and nodded solemnly._

_“She would tell me that I can’t hang on to things like this and...”_

_Ahsoka waited patiently for you to finish, her kind eyes glistening with a stoic empathy._

_“And she would tell me that sometimes good people do bad things.” You had been nearly inconsolable after accidentally strangling Master Fisto in your sleep. He had come to wake you from a nightmare after hearing your screams through the wall and upon waking up, you had launched him across the room and pinned him to the wall, squeezing at his windpipes through the force as the energy flickered through the shivering fingers of your left hand and your lightsaber buzzed to life in your right. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to have to send for a nurse droid to come and give him an examination._

_“You are too hard on yourself sometimes, (Y/N),” Ahsoka said as she placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She was a kind person, an excellent friend._

———

Sparks fly from the surface of your arm as the welding torch of Boba’s BB-12 droid tries to repair the damage to your prosthetic. A hiss escapes your lips as one of the sparks makes contact with your bare cheek, causing Din’s head to whip towards you from where he had been nodding off next to you on the crate. 

“Hey, careful, you hunk of junk,” he growls. You stifle a laugh at his aggressive distaste for droids. BB-12 beeps and whirs a few times before returning to his task; you slowly rest your head on Din’s left pauldron and exhale with exhaustion. It had been very difficult to sleep in the freighter with so many other people. You and Din were just used to being around each other—and the baby—without having to worry about others listening in. You both watch BB-12 work for a moment, then Din breaks the silence. 

“Can you feel anything when he does that?” 

You shake your head, ignoring the sting of icy Beskar against the part of your face that had not yet warmed its surface to the touch. “No. When he gets closer to where it ends, though... I can feel the nerve-endings vibrating there. The metal shakes and it feels like I’m clenching and unclenching my fist. Din continues to watch in fascination before deciding to change the subject. 

“Do you think we’ll find this Ahsoka Tano?” 

“I do. I hope we do, at least.” Your chest tightens a little at the mention of her name. You would hate to get excited about the prospects of seeing her and then find that it was all false hope, so you smother the feelings down. Inhale, exhale, just like Yaddle taught you. “She would be good for Grogu,” you explain softly as your eyes glance over to the hovering pram just across the slow. 

“You’re good for him,” Din remarks even-toned. “Why should Ahsoka train him?” Your eyes find their way to his dark visor before lowering to his sternum; you can’t look at him, even if his face is hidden behind the smooth plane of chrome and mandokar. 

“There are things I cannot teach him. She can.” Din waits patiently for you to elaborate, so you heave a sigh and lean further into his frame so that he can’t see your face. BB-12 beeps in warning and you slide back to where you were, ever so slightly. 

“When I was a Padawan—a student—I looked up to Ahsoka. She was a Jedi Knight at the time, newly trained by her Master... fiercely talented. She taught me how to do things with my hands, including how to generate electricity from force energy—”

Dins body stills in shock at the details of this story, and you remember that he has likely never seen a Jedi do such a thing before. It all seems old hat to you, like a familiar seat at a familiar table where you’ve shared a thousand meals before. But Din, he only knows what he has been told or see you do during your time in Grogu’s service. His fingers slowly find their way to your right hand and he entwines them and lets them rest on his thigh. 

“I can’t teach him how to do that with one hand. In fact, I’m not sure I would be able to teach him with both. It’s very difficult.” You feel Din’s chin dig slightly into the top of your head as he nods.   
“Well I suppose that’s as good a reason as any for BB-12 to get your prosthetic fixed quickly. You may not be able to shoot lightning out of your fingers—” (you both giggle...)—“but I can think of some other things you can do with two hands.” You let out a guffaw and bury your flaming face into the cool of his Beskar


	14. A Trusted Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 115 kudos, mates?! I’m floored every time I read your kind comments and get updates on how many people have clicked on the tiny heart button below my poor attempt at honoring the brilliance of The Mandalorian. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> Also, major “no beta we die like men” energy on this chapter, you know I can’t proofread at 2am. 
> 
> Also-also, more NSFW coming soon, we just gotta sprinkle some plot in here first.

The crinkling of a leather glove wrapping around your bicep and shaking you awake normally would send you into a state of shock, but the moment you realize that it doesn’t belong to Din, you find yourself wide awake. “Time to awaken, Master Dune,” murmurs Boba Fett. Your heartbeat slows to a more normal pace as you wipe the sleep from your eyes. “Please, call me (Y/N),” you begin, but Boba has already whisked away around to corner, eager to disembark and find your targets: Ahsoka Tano and Fennec Shand. It’s the latter, you think, he is most urgently seeking. 

Babbling and light gurgles surprise you as you stand; the child rests at your feet, digging his little claws into the fabric of your thick sleep socks. A smile melts across your face as you pick him up and swaddle him as you had so many times before. A low, modulated sigh draws you from your domestic reverie—something you never thought you would enjoy in your lifetime—and focuses your attention on a more familiar Mandalorian who is casually leaning against the door frame of the hull. 

Din wordlessly returns your gaze as you smile at him warmly, drawing your cloak on with the help of your refurbished prosthetic. You try to flex your fingers on that hand and chuckle in satisfaction as the fingers curl into your palm and splay back out into a flat plane. 

“Good as new,” you whisper before drawing your hood up over your head. Din nods, satisfied with your approval of BB-12’s work. You join him at the door and he stops you from passing him with a featherlight grip on your shoulders. Gingerly, he pulls the hood back from your face and continues his silent assessment of your visage. “Mesh’la,” his voice cracks through the modulator. And just as quickly as he had removed the hood he returns it. “Let’s go find Tano and Shand.”

———

The sand in nearly every crevice of your wind-whipped frame is worth it, you think, as you clutch your long-lost friend close. Ahsoka, who had always hated sand, doesn’t seem to mind it so much either as she crushes you to her body. You are both doing your best not to cry in front of the present company of an elite mercenary, two Mandalorians, and a very impressionable old baby, but it is taking all of your focus to achieve. 

“You haven’t aged a day,” you snicker through your smushed features into the smooth expanse of sienna skin at her shoulder. “Neither have you, (Y/N). You’re still just like that clever young padawan that I had to pry off of a bloody-nosed Brandyn Erso.” Your face flushes slightly at the memory. 

“He deserved it.” Your laughter is quickly drowned out by hers and you feel a sense of peace in the Force that is like a distant memory breathing some energy into a past life. A healing of sorts. The sand seems less of a nuisance in the arid heat radiating from the double suns and more like tiny particles of eternal matter—vast and minuscule, old and new. A single tear crawls down your cheek and evaporates almost as if it had never fallen at all. 

“This is touching, really,” snips your very serious albeit sarcastic new friend, Fennec; “... but we need to leave. Now.” Cara grumbles something about how you all should have started off to the ship over an hour ago, but it’s tinged with a slight hint of nervousness that you can only assume must be attributed to the presence of the terrifying yet alluring mercenary. Cara had hardly stopped ogling her since you all had located the two in their hideaway among the rocks. 

“Fine,” Ahsoka says, releasing you from her iron grip. “I want to spend some time with young Grogu, anyways.” She gently takes him from Din’s arms and he watches her every move the entire walk back to the ship. You stay close to his side, your twin cloaks whipping around wildly in the gusts of wind that push sand over more blistering sand. 

“They seem to be getting along,” Din murmurs lowly as the two of you follow steadily, several paces behind Ahsoka and the little green bundle.

“I can feel their connection through the Force,” you offer with a nod. “It’s easy for them, like they’ve met before.” You start to say something else but are distracted by the brush of leather-clad fingertips across your knuckles, a fleeting tease of burning touch. You thought it couldn’t get much warmer under the punishing Tatooinian atmosphere, but you swear a new sheen of sweat breaks out on your dampened skin. 

“Have they?” 

Your brow furrows as you realize your answer: “I don’t know.”

———  
“And then I said ‘if you think I’m fast, you should meet my sister,’” Cara snickers as she tells Fennec yet another story from your childhood before the years had hardened the entire crew of the ship in different ways. “She was always like a loth-cat. Cunning, agile. Now that I know it’s the Force, I don’t feel as bad about not being able to keep up.” 

The two share a laugh as they throw back another cup of spotchka each. You and Din are sitting up against crate on the opposite side of the hull while Boba sleeps in the cockpit. Ahsoka and Grogu are up there with him, quietly conversing through the Force and watching the stars dance through hyperspace. “We’re going to run out of room for stowaways on my ship,” Boba had grumbled on his way up. You’re still giggling softly at his annoyance. 

“All it takes is one wrong move,” Fennec says more seriously after the laughter has died down. She cocks a sharp eyebrow at your left arm before lifting her tunic to reveal a mechanical midriff. Your jaw tenses at the realization as she launches into the story about how Boba had found her in the desert, left for dead by a rookie hunter named Toro Calican. You feel Din tense beside you as you twist your arm back and forth in the dim light of the hull. His hand rests lightly on your thigh in reassurance of his presence. 

“She made the right move at a very high cost,” Ahsoka says, appearing quietly from the shadows just below the ladder. “Grogu remembers it.” 


	15. Like a Moth to a Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooohoohohoooho. Enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all of your sweet words and kudos. You keep me writing! I apologize again for the lack of regularity in my posting schedule. I am, after all, a student and an employee and the seasonal depression is deep and draining these days. BUT, we’re making it together. Just know that I’m sending you a hug, wherever you are. Now please enjoy some flowery backstory and a surprising 0-100 escalation of something way more exciting.

Sitting on a crate next to your Mandalorian, you both look up at your old friend’s pearl and blue montrals. Ahsoka gently cradles Grogu in front of your faces. He seems hesitant, but calm. “Are you ready, Grogu?” Her mellow voice seems to put him at peace, then he coos lightly. With one little green claw on your face and another wrapped around the skin of Din’s exposed sliver of wrist, Grogu trembles in concentration as he projects the memory into your minds. The fire is taller than you remember it yourself, the screams louder. A side-effect of having very large ears, you suppose. The memory is vivid and it makes you wince. You were hoping that since Grogu was even younger at the time that it might be a bit blurry for him. In some ways, he remembers it more distinctly than you could yourself—distracted by combat and panic. 

Columns of ancient stone crumble and turn to ash as enemy forces pour through every entrance; younglings—children—lay strewn about the floor in an unforgivable scene. You can hear Din’s breath shaking through his modulator. His free hand is digging painfully into the sides of your knee, so you place one of yours over his and he instantly softens his grip just enough that you can stop clenching your teeth. 

You watch through Grogu’s eyes as he shuffles out from under the limp body of a slaughtered Padawan. Your heart seizes at the thought of the precious little baby, who you’ve grown to love in spite of every teaching you’d ever received, seeing this carnage. Never had you hated Anakin Skywalker’s mania more. And just as you think you have to pry his sweet, green hand from your face, your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of someone you had not seen in a long, long time. 

You are kneeling over a fallen Obi-Wan Kenobi, your dark cloak pooling around your folded legs and casting his torso in shadow. He grimaces as you press on the massive wound at his rib cage. His auburn hair looks coppery in the light of the flames dancing around the ruins of your holy place... your home. You are begging him to relax so that you can heal him and—ever the rule follower—he quickly obliges and returns to laying on his back. 

“Inhale energy, exhale life,” you murmur with your brow furrowed in concentration. Your face was smoother then, fewer freckles and scars for Din to trace with the soft leather fingertip of his glove. The tight Padawan braid chased down your back after the rest of your hair, long and familiar. You feel the tightening in your chest at the sight of your left hand, splayed over the darkening fabric of Obi-Wan’s pale tunic. You can hardly remember what it feels like to have a real hand there, sparkling with nerves and threatened by the cold damp of snow or boiling sting of the sun. Your reverie is cut short by the swaying cape of a Sith silently approaching.

Grogu seems to have crawled back under the bodies. You shudder. 

“Gideon,” Obi-Wan hisses, “I see you’ve come back to finish me. You will not wi—“

Moff Gideon’s blade is like a dark abyss crackling with blinding light at the edges, always simmering with violent energy and deadly illumination. Obi-Wan’s warning is cut off as it slices through the air with a menacing hum. The younger version of you throws up your left arm—outstretched, taut with muscle, and tense, ready to take the blow of a solid object—and it is severed and cauterized in one fell swoop. The scream that leaves your mouth is devastating and Moff Gideon, in his devilish mirth, chuckles lowly. 

“You’re a brave little thing, aren’t you? And a stupid one at that,” he chides. 

Obi-Wan is calling your name frantically as you writhe in pain at the foot of the smiling Sith.

“Where are your sabers, young (Y/N)? Stand up and fight,” Gideon hisses through his grin. A quiet sob escapes your lips. The Moff continues his mocking as he snickers: “You’ll never be a Jedi Knight if you can’t handle a little flesh wound.” 

In his memory, Grogu whimpers as if he were desperate to help but powerless. You can feel his urgency and it breaks your heart again. Then suddenly, the projection stops and Grogu is quickly asleep in Ahsoka’s arms. She walks across the hall to place him in his cot. It is only when you and Din are sitting there alone in stunned silence that you can feel the tears drying to your cheeks. He pulls you tightly into the Beskar-clad plane of his torso, pressing your head into the hollow of his neck. 

“I wish he hadn’t s-seen that,” you whisper through the sobs that are wracking your body. You can’t even bring yourself to feel embarrassed that you’re soaking the cowl of Din’s tunic. 

“Cyare...” Din’s voice is a gruff whisper, choked on its way out of a tight, burning throat. You think he is going to say more, but he just strengthens his grip on you. You aren’t sure how long you stay like that. It feels good to cry. He doesn’t speak again for a while. The hull is dark, and the others have long been asleep when Din finally breaks the silence: “Let’s go to bed.” You give a small nod of your head and a sniffle in response before he pulls you to your feet and wipes your tears with his ungloved hand. You start to turn towards your bunk when the hand at your jaw wraps around the back of your neck, redirecting your course towards him. Before you realize what is going on, Din leads you into his bunk across the hull and shuts the door behind him. 

———

You wake, a few hours after you had fallen asleep wrapped in Din’s armorless arms, to the feeling of light breathing just above the tip of your ear. You wouldn’t think anything of it, expect that you usually hear Din breathing, not feel. It hits you—he had removed his helmet after you had dozed off. You must stir just enough to wake him, because you feel him shifting underneath you and his hand gently tipping your chin up so that you are facing him. Not that it matters, you think, because it’s pitch dark in the bunk; his hidden gaze still sets your cheeks on fire. 

“Are you okay, (Y/N)?” His sweet, warm baritone takes you back to the cave where you had heard him speak unhindered for the first time. A sigh you can’t contain steals past your lips, ghosting across the surface of Din’s fingers on your jaw. 

“I am now,” you whisper; at least you think you’re whispering. You could be yelling for all you know, but there’s no way you could hear over your own heartbeat anyways. Din hums his satisfaction as he plants a small kiss on the tip of your nose. “I have to ask you something else, Cyare...” 

“Anything.” 

A beat passes before Din clears his throat.

“How badly do you want to stay a Jedi? To... honor The Code, I mean?” 

The question catches you off-guard and writes itself into the crinkle of your brow. “The Code... The Code was everything to me, once,” you whisper in the darkness, remembering the face of the young Padawan you had glanced only hours ago. Determined. Naive. “I’ve already abandoned some of its strictest teachings. Some,” you say softly, running your hand gently up the side of his neck and back into the hair at the back of his head, “I can’t take back... wouldn’t take back.” 

Din swallows thickly and your heart speeds at the uncharacteristic action. Whatever he has to ask scares him. “So, attachment...” his mumble is so soft you barely catch it, but your lips find his regardless. The kiss is urgent and you can’t seem to pull him close enough even with your fist in his hair. You finally release him to pant for air and he seems to have found a new wave of confidence. 

“Whether you will have me or not, I’m yours, (Y/N).” 

“There’s nothing else I want more,” you say, leaning in to kiss him again. A gentle hand stills you just a hairsbreadth from his face. 

“I’m asking you to marry me. Will you?” 

If those were the last words you ever heard in your life, you would be content to die and heaven would pale in comparison—Din, in all of his raw, unmodulated glory, asking you to be his wife in the darkness only possible in space. 

“Yes.”


	16. Vow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wedding time!! Mostly fluff, but we are LITERALLY ON THE EDGE of some spicy stuff. I’m not torturing you on purpose... or am I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s what I picture for the dress: https://images.app.goo.gl/ptumZR64Mab3Wxcc9  
> And hair, but small lotuses: https://images.app.goo.gl/86dZsMWxPZxkar5a8  
> But whatever makes you happy is what I encourage you to imagine in your mind’s eye. ;) 

You and the crew on the ship had spent the morning preparing for landing on Sorgan, the perfect place for Fennec and Boba to settle as she recovered from the strains that come with the restlessness of life as a vagabond. Cara had decided to stay, too—in part because of Fennec, you think, but also because she already trusted the villagers there. Apart from it being a good fit for the majority, you were excited to return because it was where you and Din met however many months ago. Looking back, it’s hard to imagine never not knowing him, as if any of your life that feels meaningful is attached to his presence—a turning point in your troubled past. Sorgan should be the perfect place to start your new life together. 

You think about this as you are wading through the sparkling water of a krill pond after Omera, clawing your way through thick cat-tails and lily pads as best you can with your left arm hovering just above the waterline and your right furiously brushing the aquatic plants out of your path. “Almost there,” her soothing voice lilts over her shoulder, reassuring you that your vain attempt at swimming with one arm is coming to an end. Breaking through the last patch of tall grasses and into a clearing, you feel your breath escape your burning lungs in awe. 

As far as the eye can see, large white lotuses blanket the water. She smiles at you knowingly, as she had seen the landscape 1000 times for each bride that was married in their small village. “It never gets old,” she whispers. “We need at least 30 or so of them to have enough for your bouquet and to put in your hair.” Your jaw drops just a little as you realize that you aren’t sure what the Mandalorian traditions for weddings are, unable to decide whether or not you should ask Din if it’s appropriate to dress up at all. 

As if she can read your mind, Omera squeezes your shoulder lightly, her crinkling eyes casting a warmth across your face. “Every bride deserves flowers on her wedding day, especially brides who never thought that it would be possible for them to marry. I could send you to him in a burlap sack and he’s be thrilled, (Y/N). He’s helmet over heels.” You both laugh at that as you gather the lotuses and try to imagine the face of your Mandalorian and decide that it will somehow be more beautiful than the invasive blossoms choking down Sorgan’s crystalline water. 

“Omera,” you whisper, “I am excited to marry him but I can’t help but think that I’m not going to be good at it”—your voice cracks—“I ... I haven’t trained for companionship, for...”

Petals of a lotus in Omera’s hand brush over your eyes as she stills you with a gentle hand to the cheek. “(Y/N), you know how to protect and sacrifice. That is love.” 

———

“It’s better, I think,” Boba grumbles, rising from his position where he had been hunched over Din’s pauldron where he had polished the emblem there. 

“Thanks, Boba...” Din’s voices shakily, even through the modulator. “I need to cut my hair now, so ... thanks for your help.” 

“Just take good care of that Jedi, Mando. Everything’s going to be fine.” The two share a slow nod as they look at their masked reflections in the pane of glass resting against the wall of the hut. Shiny metal men illuminated by the sunshine leaking through the cracks in the wall, faceless... masked. 

“Boba, how will I know if I’m doing it right?” Din blurts before jerking his head around to face his friend’s true visage as opposed to his reflected form. 

“It?” Boba scoffs, “Surely you know how two humans mate”—

“No, not that”—Din stammers, cutting Boba off before he has to bury his head in the sand and never speak to the man again. “Being a riduur... a spouse.” 

“My boy,” Boba chuckles warmly, then pauses, softening as he recalls a much younger Din Djarin who was confused and misguided, running with a crime gang and desperate to be known and forgotten all at once. 

“Just as you have loved the child—fiercely, sacrificially—that is how you will love the Jedi. On top of that, you will let her in to the most vulnerable parts of your soul and she will become a part of you. Gar kar’ta.”

———

You lay a rug at the base of the table that Omera had graciously provided in the hut you were sharing with Din after you had made a singular request for your wedding celebration: you wanted to build a small altar to honor The Force, which would be the sole witness to your private vows. Din had explained to the others that the vows must be taken in private because he would remove his helmet. Every time you remember that you’ll finally get to see his smile, you feel as if someone is plucking a string that lives in your rib cage. 

Kneeling, you place a twin saber on either side of the altar and a scroll that Ahsoka had given to you in the middle; it was a poem she had written for a mediation course with Yaddle while you were both training at the temple. Your Master’s writing was barely legible in the corner, but still present: “take your own advice, you must. It is wise to follow your heart, for one with the Force it is, Ahsoka.” You choose to believe that your Master would have understood the forsaking of your Code had she been here to meet—

“Cyare,” Din calls quietly from the doorway. 

Slowly, you stand and turn to face him. The white linen dress Omera had lent you is slightly too long, but it swishes around your just like your cloak usually does, bringing you some comfort and familiarity in an otherwise foreign situation. “Din,” you breathe, taking in the polished Beskar and the gaze searing through the dark ‘t’ of his visor. A beat passes before he crosses to you and tentatively reaches for both hands, squeezing your right and tucking the left into his chest where metal clinks against metal. “Tell me how this goes,” you plead softly, squeezing back. 

“I’ll say the riduurok—the vows—piece by piece, and ... you’ll repeat them back to me.” His helmet comes down to rest against your forehead, cool and smooth. “Then when we’re one”—a shiver shoots down your spine at his words, you think your heart is about to leap out of your throat and onto the floor—“I take my helmet off and bare my face to you.” 

Your breath hitches slightly and you nod in understanding. “Din,” you say as he places your right hand next to your left on his cuirass and lifts his own to cup your cheek; “What do you keep calling me? Cy... Cyare?”

His hand ghosts softly down your neck as he trails a single, gloved finger across your collar bone. A shuddering breath leaves your parted lips as you watch his head tilt just a hair to the side. “Cyare means ‘beloved.’” Any nervousness left in your body evaporates and is replaced with the urgent need to have his lips on yours. 

“I’m ready,” you nod again, gently, then he helps you return to your place kneeling on the mat before mirroring your position across from you, knees just a whisper away from yours. 

"Mhi solus tome.” You echo him, then he explains: “We are one when together.”

_Mhi solus dar'tome. We are one when parted._

_Mhi me'dinui an. We will share all._

_Mhi ba'juri verde. We will raise warriors._


	17. A Stranger’s Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din Djarin shows his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hey, hello... one last mini chapter before we get into smut territory. Self-indulgent fluff here... bear with me. These are troubled times.

_“You know how to protect and sacrifice,” Omera said. “That is love.”_

Her words turn over and over in your mind as Din holds your hands gently in his lap. You have seen him make sacrifices, countless times, for you and Grogu. You have watched him go without rations just to make sure that the kid could have double, throw his body in front of your sister when she is in the line of fire, and take extra time to assess whether or not your wounds he had stitched were just right. And now, you have vowed to be one forever, kneeling before each other, sacrificing your old lives and starting new. It only seems appropriate to know his face now, already knowing his soul long before you met him. 

You gently tug on his glove, only pulling it an inch or so off of his hand before pausing to look to the visor for permission. A slow nod and a little gasp of air through the modulator are all you need to tug it the rest of the way off. His hands are warm and familiar, but somehow seeing them now in the bright sunlight that pours through the window seems like the first time. A freckle here, a scar there, light callouses and surety... home. You gently remove his other glove and release a shaky breath when his uncovered hands pull yours to the edge of his his helm. The contrast of the cold beskar causes you to exhale sharply, which earns a low chuckle from Din. 

With his hands still pressing yours into the smooth plane of metal over his hidden ears, he turns the helmet slightly and you hear the air lock release with your favorite hiss in the world. His next move is painfully slow as he pulls it up and off, glacially removing the only barrier between you and the face of the Mandalorian—the man—that you had come to love. And if you hadn’t been on the ground already, you would have quickly found your way there at the sight of him. 

Din’s face seems familiar, like you should have known him all your life, yet you know that no one has seen him in many years; you certainly hadn’t, or you would have remembered every detail. The warmth of olive skin. The aquiline nose positioned over the lightest mustache and lips slightly agape. Deep brown eyes situated under two resolute brows pulling on a creased, concentrated forehead. A head of dark waves of hair teases at the tops of his ears and tremors slightly at the uncommon brush of fresh air. He is beautiful, you think, or rather... you say. It slides off of your lips like a prayer you hadn’t meant to mutter. He blushes. 

A beat passes of you gaping at him before he gently presses your hands into the hollows of his cheeks, and his eyes flutter closed. You aren’t sure why you do it, but you can feel the pull of The Force humming beneath your fingers, urging you closer. Your forehead finds his and his grip on your hands tightens further. You wonder if the bite of the gunmetal from your left hand is a nice contrast to the sweaty, burning palm of your right, just like the beskar on Din’s forehead usually is through the helmet. Here and now, though, it seems that everything is blazing. 

“(Y/N),” he starts, but a vision pulses through the space between you, stilling his words and causing you both to pause. It is fleeting and distant, but it is there. It’s the two of you kneeling, just like this, in the lush meadow of a valley. A breeze causes the tall blades of sweet grass to dance; your hair dances, too, whipping wildly across your face and brushing across Din’s. You’re both laughing and everything feels right. As soon as it had appeared, the vision leaves and you pull away just enough to see his whole face again. This is contentment, too. 

As if the absence was killing him, Din’s hands are quickly gripping your jaw and pulling you back in; he presses his lips to yours and, not for the first time, you think back to the kiss you shared in the cave under some very different circumstances. His lips are soft and comforting while still suffocating and disarming. His breath stutters between kisses while you’ve forgotten to breathe in general, lungs burning and chest aching. Drowning shouldn’t feel this good. 

“Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum,” he whispers into the pulse point on your neck. His teeth graze over the tender, vulnerable flesh there and you shudder. “Ni kar'tayli gar darasuum,” he growls as his hot breath ghosts over the junction of your collar bone. You want to ask what it means, but you think you already know. And whether or not you had accidentally slipped your longing for answers into his mind or if he needed to tell you so that you would understand, he pulls you into his lap and mutters it into your sternum. It burns its way up your throat and stings at your eyes. It’s heaven. 

“I know,” you return. 

You stay there for what seems like years, clutching his face and straddling his legs and he holds you to his torso by the small of your back. Neither of you plan to move, but a soft knock at the door startles your from your reverie. 

“It’s time for the celebration, you two,” Cara calls through the door. You can hear the smirk on your sister’s face and imagine her leaning up against the wall of the hut, back to the door, arms crossed. 

“Okay, we’ll be out in just a second,” you call back, praying that she doesn’t open the door. As if he were thinking the same thing, Din reluctantly puts his helmet back on and helps the both of you to stand. He pulls his gloves back on and you smooth out the wrinkles in your dress. 

“I want to stay here,” you grumble sheepishly, letting the unspoken “and be with you” hang in the air. The Mandalorian is stone-still for a moment, then the helmet tilts just slightly to peer down at you through the dark ‘t’ that seems so unlike him now. 

“Tonight,” Din grunts through the modulator, the sudden spark of adrenaline and primal urgency slackening your jaw. He unclenches a single balled up fist and brushes the tips of his leather gloves over the curve of your jaw and across your lips. You nod obediently, slowly, then he is guiding you to the door. 

“Din,” you stop him your right hand pressed gently to his sternum of beskar. “Ni kar'tayli ... gar darasuum;” it’s rough and you hope you haven’t insulted him, but the quick “too” you add on the end is silenced by his hand on the back of your neck and a soft touch of helmet to forehead. 

“I know,” he echoes your earlier words. You know he’s smiling. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Feelings??? Let me know!


End file.
